


Coffee with a Dash of Salt

by grimey_gal



Category: Animal Crossing New Horizons - Fandom, どうぶつの森 | Animal Crossing Series
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Because I want it, Eunice - Freeform, Eventual Fluff, Henry - Freeform, Kody - Freeform, Multi, a set up for future fics maybe?, based on feedback, basically whatever islanders I have right now, fauna - Freeform, includes Cheri, it's a fix it fic, ketchup, we'll see
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 20:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 52,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24691816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimey_gal/pseuds/grimey_gal
Summary: It's another typical Redd/Nook fanfiction, but maybe you'll enjoy it (if not, at least you'll get some ReddNook bingo shots out of it).The resident rep tries her best to help patch old wounds, because she cares about her boss (and maybe she wants some art, but that's her own story to tell). Tom tries not to get his heart broken (again). Redd tries not to let his emotions get the best of him (but he's a hopeless romantic - fortunately or unfortunately, that's up to you). Isabelle is doing her best (and deserves a strong margarita or two). The islanders are wondering what in God's name happened to their island getaway. We're hoping for a happy ending.Currently on Pause. I may come back and continue it if the inspiration hits.
Relationships: Tanukichi | Tom Nook/Tsunekichi | Redd
Comments: 74
Kudos: 91





	1. Smoke on the Horizon

**Author's Note:**

> Feedback is always welcome. Help me out, lol. I just started writing this because I needed it in my own words. I just hope it translates to you the way it spoke to me. I don't know how many chapters this will be. If anyone of you out there know me, you know I'm wordy. Hopefully you like it either way.

“Listen, if you’re worried about stability, let me handle that part. I’ve never let you down before, right? So, you settle the finances, I’ll mark the area, and the islanders will be better off with an incline. God knows  _ I’m  _ tired of having to drag my ladder over every time I want to go hunting for windflowers to breed.” 

Jonesy has baby hair sticking in just about every direction, despite a classic sun hat smashed down over her head. She’s also soaking wet from the rain, and Tom finds himself wondering why on  _ Earth _ she didn’t just bring an umbrella. Now there’s a trail of water in the Resident Services building, and she’s splashing more of it against the counter every time she taps her fingers along the wood. He’s lucky it’s nothing particularly extravagant . 

“It’s not that I don’t trust you,” he starts, a little unsure of how to proceed — the last time Jonesy had picked a location for an incline, they’d only just finished the grueling construction when she’d suddenly changed her mind, and decided to demolish it and build another on the complete opposite side of the island. When it came to bringing up the island’s so-called “curb appeal,” they both had the passion, Jonesy was just a little more… sporadic, to put it politely. Tom liked to think things through with a nice blueprint all planned out, and Jonesy lay plots down within half a heartbeat. It was enough to make  _ his  _ heart skip beats just to try and keep up. 

Or maybe that was just the coffee making him so jittery. Isabelle has told him to stop drinking so much. 

Jonesy pops her wad of gum and grins confidently. There’s a familiar devious sparkle in her eyes, one she gets when she knows she’s won. He’s going to let her have her way; he always does. And  _ most  _ of the time, he’s not disappointed. 

“Okay, so hand over the setup already, Mr. Nook. I’ve got brick to lay and fish to catch, and rain is the perfect time to try and catch some of those tuna I’ve been eyeing out by the docks. What’s the holdup?” 

“I just don’t want you to overwork yourself because you made a rash decision, that’s all,” Tom replies, trying to sound stern but failing. It’s very difficult to rein someone down when they’re about as flighty as an Agrias. Which, if there was a competition in that department, Tom is  _ sure _ Jonesy would win by a landslide. “Try to at least  _ think  _ about it before you finalize construction permission this time.” 

Jonesy finger-guns him, which isn’t exactly encouraging.

He sighs and rummages underneath his side of the counter, fishing up ground markers and a post to put together the kit. He lays it onto the counter, and Jonesy loads it into her cart, already brimming with excitement for something that has only just been conceived. 

“You’re a peach! And that’s a real compliment, considering I wore down  _ way _ too many Nook Miles just to hunt those things down to plant here,” Jonesy says smoothly, flipping through her toolbox. Tom rolls his eyes, and Isabelle, just across his desk, snorts into her plants. Jonesy doesn’t seem to notice. “A real sweet rarity.”

“Alright,  _ alright _ , stop trying to butter me up. I’m not knocking down your debt no matter  _ how _ many compliments you shower me with,” Tom interjects, despite blushing furiously. He’s never done well with compliments. Makes him feel all kinds of soft inside, and he never knows the appropriate way to respond. He’d think that by now he’d be used to it, especially with the R.R. being who she is, but he’s never quite lost the sweet tooth for sweet talk. Or anything else sweet, really. He’s craving a good chocolate pudding right about now. 

“Asshole,” Jonesy responds, and  _ now  _ Isabelle laughs out loud, unable to stop herself. Jonesy flips him off, grinning widely and trailing her cart behind her. “I’ll see you both later. Isabelle, if you catch Eunice, please  _ lovingly _ tell her I said I will  _ personally _ superglue her purse to her if she keeps losing it up in the bamboo maze.”

“I’m on it!” Isabelle replies, still stifling a giggle. Tom eyes her with a less than serious frown on his face. The door to the Resident Service slams in front of them. 

“She’s not  _ that  _ funny.” 

“She is, and you know it. Don’t think I didn’t catch you grinning over there, melting like an ice cream bar left out on the agora - which she built, by the way.”

Tom huffs at this, knowing she’s right. 

“You’re a big softie,” Isabelle continues, spraying her plants with water. “That’s what I like about you. You have the biggest heart of anyone I know.” 

“Now I know  _ you _ don’t owe me any bells, so you definitely don’t need to give me all of that,” Tom grumbles, burying himself in his paperwork. He’s had several phone calls requesting visitation on the island, and he’s got to settle on a schedule soon so he can finalize everything with the Dodo brothers at the airport. Then the itinerary needs to be sent to the potential visitors, and there is usually some haggling with what days they can come and what activities they will be most interested in during their visit. 

Isabelle doesn’t respond, but he sees her give him a look over before dedicating herself to her own agenda, the first being to gently place what he assumes is Eunice’s purse in her lost and found crate. If she had any thoughts on his defensiveness, she doesn’t speak on it. 

He’s forgotten to ask Jonesy about the state of the visitor’s tent. No matter. There is a one hundred percent chance she’ll be back to crow about where she’s placed the incline plans and to redeem Nook Miles. She’s never entirely consistent with the latter, but the former is a guarantee. He’ll bring it up then. He sighs and settles himself in on the rest of the paperwork for the next hour or so, occasionally chatting or taking a stretch break with Isabelle. 

“It’s about lunch time isn’t it?” he asks after a while, peering at the clock just to make sure time really has passed. Isabelle looks up from her book, a sort of shocked look on her face. 

“You’re right, it is,” she agrees, standing up from her chair and straightening her corduroy vest. There’s a stroke of thunder, and the rain sounds heavier than ever outside. Tom can see fog forming in the window panes. Today would have been a wonderful day for a nice warm potato soup, with chives and a creamy sauce, but the forecast hadn’t called for rain earlier. He opens the small fridge to dig out his and Isabelle’s lunch, already feeling his stomach peel in hunger despite having had a snack not too long ago. 

“Here,” he says, reaching over to Isabelle, who leans forward and grabs her lunch appreciatively. 

Isabelle, who is always extremely polite and positive. He can’t have asked for a better assistant. She truly goes above and beyond her station, which is much more than he’d ever hoped for. When he initially invited her to help run the Human Resources department, he hadn’t expected her to catch on so quickly, or to be quite so loving. Not that he’d doubted she’d do a good job. He wouldn’t have picked her if he’d thought she wasn’t cut out for it. But she had surpassed his expectations. He can’t imagine working without her. 

The same can be said for Jonesy, despite her sometimes stressing the ever loving hell out of him. They have, without a doubt, the strangest employee/employer relationship he has ever experienced in business, and he’s been in the business of business for quite some time now. He somehow thinks of her as a sister and a daughter at the same time, and he’s had neither his entire life. 

He certainly hadn’t expected her energy either, when he’d first offered this idea of creating the perfect getaway venture. She’d been much quieter when they’d first met. Now she was consistently barging in and hanging over his counter to talk as if neither of them had work to do. 

Not that he’s complaining. Especially now that the twins are older and at that age where they find him too embarrassing to be around him as much, it gets lonely. And the other residents don’t visit much unless they have a complaint. Besides Isabelle, Jonesy is the only social interaction he really has. He knows this is probably partially his fault. He never meant to become a desk monkey. But there’s a particular comfort in the routine of knowing what comes next. He knows how to deal with chaos he can control. And the paper chaos on his desk is a very _controllable_ _chaos_ , if he puts his mind to it. 

He unwraps his tuna salad sandwich and sniffs at it contentedly before taking a bite into it, humming in relief. Isabelle is scrolling through her phone, laughing to herself every once in a while. He clicks through his computer and reads the recent news articles, looking for something to catch his eye and inspire him. 

He’s halfway through a bite on the second half of his sandwich when the door slams open, and he’s surprised to see it isn’t Jonesy back to proclaim her victory. 

“Eunice! You poor dear, you’re  _ shivering _ ,” Isabelle exclaims immediately, snatching up a towel and rushing over to dab at said Eunice with it. “Where is your umbrella?” 

Eunice, sad and forlorn, appears even more so than usual, drenched and dripping. Her knit navy sweater clings to her frame and she digs in her pocket for a handkerchief, sneezing into it abruptly. 

“It’s -  _ excuse me _ \- it’s just outside. Doesn’t seem to help much with  _ this _ rain, however,” she murmurs, taking the towel gratefully and wrapping it around her shoulders. “Thank you.” 

“Of course!” Isabelle chimes in sweetly, making her way back to her desk. “Tea? Coffee? I also have some cider packets if you’d like that.” 

“Tea sounds lovely, thank you,” Eunice replies, shivering into the towel. She brings it closer around her and settles down in one of the waiting chairs. Tom can hear her heels clicking against the floor just before she sits, legs crossed daintily. Her voice is small and meek. “Normally I really wouldn’t be out in this rain to begin with, but I’ve lost my purse and I was wondering if anyone has seen it or turned it in?” 

“As a matter of fact, your lovely R.R. came across it this morning. She told me to pass along the message that she will, and I quote,  _ personally superglue it to you _ .”

Eunice blushes sheepishly, stammering. “I owe her so much,” she sighs, shaking her head. “It’s a pity I really don’t have much to give. I think this is about the third time just this week I’ve dropped the silly thing.” 

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much,” Isabelle says, smiling widely. She pulls out the purse and lays it in the chair next to Eunice. “She only has the nicest things to say about you every time she comes by. Isn’t that right, Mr. Nook?” 

“The nicest,” Tom concurs, and Eunice visibly relaxed, a bright smile beaming across her face. It’s the happiest he’s ever seen her, including the day her home was finally completely built and furnished. Why she had wanted what seemed like an unreasonable amount of washers, he didn’t know. It wasn’t his business as to why she wanted to feel as if she lived in a laundromat, so he hadn’t asked. 

“That is  _ so _ good to hear,” Eunice chirps, as Isabelle hands her the now ready tea. Eunice clasps it in both hands, blowing on the steam gently. “I do so  _ adore _ that girl - although I can’t for the life of me keep up with half of what she says. It is nice to listen though, and be listened to. I never feel as if I’m boring her.” 

Tom can relate. He thinks to himself that Eunice might have just put into words exactly how he feels about Jonesy. It certainly resonates with him. 

“Speaking of Jonesy,” he starts, “I feel as if she should have been here by now. It’s been hours since she came in about the incline.” 

“Maybe she took your advice about thinking more seriously about where she puts it,” Isabelle suggests, pouring herself the remaining Chamomile. 

Tom snorts against his will. “Highly unlikely,” he says. If anything, she’s found a nice spot to fish and simply gotten distracted. He wouldn’t put that past her. It’s a much more logical conclusion than the idea of her ever settling down to think something through. 

“She mentioned something about a secret beach?” Eunice offers helpfully, sipping at her tea. “She’s been banging around up the Northside of the island, digging out some kind of path behind the gardens. I really didn’t know what she was going on about, but I figured we’d all find out soon enough.” 

“Makes sense,” Tom agrees, finishing up his lunch and settling back into his work. Jonesy is never quite predictable, except in being  _ unpredictable _ . He can always count on her for that. That, and an unprecedented determination and surefire work ethic that truly blossomed their island. Eunice and Isabelle prattle to each other softly while they finish their tea, and he blissfully zones into the number work of bookkeeping and financing various loans and offers. The rain has mostly settled, and he falls easily into a rhythm of work, his head propped up against his hand while he studies the files in front of him. 

His nephews have paid out way too many bells for lawn work. He sighs, crossing through numbers and adjusting his accounts. He’ll have to talk with them when they close up tonight. They mean well, and most of the time do an excellent job, but at times they’re a bit overzealous - and a little too generous. It doesn’t take much to impress them, and it shows up in their transaction statements. 

At the same time, a simple wax candle shouldn’t be over 500 bells. He scans the receipt and scoffs in amusement. Jonesy has bought six of them.  _ Six _ . He wonders why she hadn’t even tried to haggle for a more reasonable price. More than likely, she hadn’t given it a second thought. He continues to study the statements, and finds that several of the islanders have paid more than their fair share of bells on several items. Which means that now he’s going to have to do the math to find out whether they’re owed money or in the hole. 

He can work with numbers, though. Numbers are the same no matter what. You always have a predictable outcome, and you know what you need to get the desired outcome. As mind-wearying as it can be, to trudge through equation after equation, the outcome can be controlled. There is no room for surprise mistakes. Except perhaps the twins haphazardly running the store to the ground with their little to no knowledge on basic economics. He twists in his chair, trying to release the tension that’s been building up in his neck for the past half hour. 

Eunice leaves at last, when it seems the rain has slowed down just a tad enough for her liking. He watches her slowly wobble her way out of the door, her purse left on the seat. He coughs to catch her attention, but Isabelle jumps to action before he can stand out of his chair, rushing after her. He can hear their subdued conversation and blurred voices just on the other side of the door, the rain just a bit louder than they are. The door shuts behind Isabelle with a heavy slam. 

“She is an interesting character herself, isn’t she?” 

Isabelle shivers, which is in positively the most dainty way anyone could. If Tom wasn’t looking, he’d easily believe no one was there. She grins at him, shoes spattering across the floor, and Tom thinks to himself that they definitely need to invest in a nice rug before the wood is ruined completely. It’s been all cloudy skies for the past few days. 

“I have to say, I am really surprised that she even applied to live on a remote island. She doesn’t seem like the type to adapt well to change, or inconveniences,” she cocks her head at him. “Kind of like you.” 

Tom raises a brow at her gentle jab. “Jonesy is rubbing off on you, and I don’t like it,” he grunts, mouth already crooking into a smile.

“I do. Give her a raise.” 

“I can’t do that. Then she’ll get too confident and she’ll be  _ insufferable _ .”

They stare at each other for a while, trying very hard not to break into laughter. It doesn’t last very long, and Isabelle cracks first, giving into a fit of giggles. 

“It really does surprise me though, that you just uproot yourself and two “nephews” to some faraway place where we’d have to - quite literally - build society from the ground up,” Isabelle muses aloud, pursing her lips. She gazes at him curiously. “What made you decide to do it?” 

He feels the sting before he can stop himself. He hopes she doesn’t see it in his eyes. He’s worked long and hard on creating a veneer of passive indifference. His eyes drop to the stack of work still left, and wonders how much he can clear before calling it a day. 

“I just needed a change,” he settles on. It’s a politician's answer, and he can tell Isabelle is disappointed by it, but she doesn’t pry. Still, the crestfallen look on her brow drives him just guilty enough to feel the need to explain  _ something _ . 

“I made a lot of choices, Isabelle, choices that led me to question who I was. Especially since I have the twins in tow. I didn’t want,” he pauses and waved his hand around, and Isabelle is looking on, trying her very hardest to accept his roundabout explanation. “I didn’t want them to think they had to grow up and be just like me. I wanted to show them that there are… options. That you can choose anything you want for yourself. That you can choose  _ happiness _ .” 

Isabelle catches her breath. “Mr. Nook,” she starts, and he fears he’s said too much. She sinks into her chair, and he can see the glaze of thought come over her eyes. He braces himself for the impact. 

“That’s a very  _ melodramatic  _ way of showing them that, don’t you think?” 

He tries not to sigh in relief, and lets out a low chuckle instead. The applicants will just have to wait until tomorrow. If they’re truly dedicated to an unpredictable lifestyle, he won’t have a slew of complaints in his voicemail in the morning. 

“I mean, couldn’t you have just moved to a different town?” Isabelle is still wondering. He’s not sure she realizes she’s thinking out loud. The clock rings out it’s default theme, chiming ten-o-clock to everyone in earshot. 

The twins should be closing up shop by now. He gathers up their ledger and stands from his chair, stretching. 

“That’s us, Isabelle,” he tells her. She’s clicking her pen, no doubt in the midst of signing yet another letter for an approved applicant. The process of being accepted just to visit the island is a monotonous and prolonged process, but it’s worth it to ensure that not just anyone can come creeping onto the island shores. The island is made to be paradise; he’ll do anything to be sure it remains that way. 

“Go on ahead, Mr. Nook, I’m just ten minutes behind you,” Isabelle returns. She sounds distracted. He follows her gaze to the window, where he can see the fog and the rain still. The sky is darker now. He wants to ask what’s caught her mind, but if he expects her to respect his privacy, he’d better set the tone. He just gives a small approval before exiting his work space, pausing at the door. 

“Lock up before you leave, alright?” 

“I will, Mr. Nook.” 

He hesitates, watching her chew her lip over a sheet of stationary in her hands. There’s lightning that colors the sky, and he finally leaves the building, letting the door slip shut behind him. 

He’s forgotten an umbrella. He’s about to be soaked and miserable. He groans and tries to channel a spontaneous mindset before dashing out into the rain, trying not to think too much about how it’s soaking into his shoes. 

He stops by the shop, but the twins are already gone. He can tell as soon as he rounds the corner, and doesn’t see the lights. Which means he’s run this way for nothing. He’s starting to think that maybe having a faster mode of transportation might not be a bad idea. He shakes himself and rushes away from the store and towards home this time, cursing under his breath. He doesn’t understand how Jonesy was piddling around all day in this weather without any sort of protection. 

He still hadn’t seen her again since the afternoon, he's come to realize. It’s definitely odd, and he’s unsure of what would have kept her away. There wasn’t even an evening visit, even if just to give him a hard time. The island is small, and she’s capable; surely she isn’t in any trouble. But it worries him all the same. If he doesn’t hear from her by morning, he’ll go looking. 

“Uncle Tom- Uncle Tom, why are you all  _ wet _ ?  _ Jesus _ , didn’t you bring an umbrella?” 

“...an umbrella, Uncle Tom?” 

Timmy and Tommy are at his heels before he can even shut the door to his own home, which means they didn’t bother to go through the pantry at all and try to whip up dinner for themselves. Maybe he’s asking too much for fourteens. He sighs wearily beneath their chattering and shrugs out of his now soaking loafers, leaning them up against the baseboard to dry. He hopes they’ll dry by tomorrow, anyways. They’re the only business shoes he has. 

“Alright, alright - what do you two want to eat?” he asks, easing himself out from their arms. Scrawny and growing taller everyday, the twins are becoming more and more out of his reach. He’s never been a parent before these two, and he wonders if they all feel this way, when their babies reach to teens. That they’re slowly losing them. The hugs are more sparse, the conversations die out. He knows that he’s not the best at initiating conversation, outside of talking shop. 

He wonders if it’s his fault, that he feels alone at the end of the day. That he sleeps lonely. 

“Pizza! Pizza!”

“...Pizza!” 

They sound like a chorus, if hungry teen boys were a choir in a chapel. On this island, he thinks, they most likely are. He pushes himself out of his thoughts and into the present moment, shaking his head at them. 

“We can’t have pizza, we just had fried salmon earlier this week. It’s not  _ healthy _ …” 

He watches their faces fall. Wide brown eyes narrow slowly. Timmy begins to scowl, although he doesn’t say anything, and Tommy sniffs and shrugs his shoulders. The house is silent suddenly, the life gone as quickly as it had initially ambushed him. He’s snuffed it again, without realizing how or why, and he’s just  _ so _ tired. 

“...but I guess, since it’s a Friday, I’ll make an exception.”

Tommy squeals. Timmy punches the air in excitement. “Yes! You’re the  _ best _ !” he screeches, shaking one of the kitchen chairs chaotically. Tom tries not to let his anxiety increase with the volume. Tommy squeezes him in the tightest embrace, and he can feel him shaking in delight. 

“...the best!” he’s echoing. 

“Well, let me  _ get  _ to the pizza,” Tom chides gently. He gives Tommy a pointed look, holding up the worn yellow book. “And we need to talk about this ledger, young man.” 

“ _ After  _ pizza,” Timmy insists, coming up behind him and shoving him into the kitchen. He nearly trips over Tommy on the way to the fridge, finding himself disassociating just to quiet the chaos in his head for a moment while he tries to focus on how to bake pizza. Pizza. 400 degrees in the oven. Fifteen minutes. Pizza. 

Timmy and Tommy are hollering over each other at the kitchen table while he places the pizza in the oven, and he hears a resounding crash and a pile of dominoes spreading out. They don’t seem to need him anytime soon. He closes the oven door and leans towards the small window in the kitchen. Although the rain has halted for now, the clouds are thick as ever, and it looks as if it will be storming all night.

He peers into the fog more carefully, where he can see some of the islanders still meandering around. Why anyone would be out in this weather is beyond him. But they certainly  _ look  _ happy. He watches as Cheri and Kody have what appears to be an engaging conversation, their faces lighting up in excitement as they carry on about whatever it is they’re engrossed in. He feels intrusive for wishing he knew what it was. The longing is there anyways. 

Something catches his eye on the far north side. The clouds look black, almost like smoke. He cranes his neck towards it to get a better look, but then Tommy is calling his name, and the oven is beeping at him. He glances towards it one more time before leaving it be, grabbing the oven mitts. Perhaps Jonesy has found her so called secret beach, and is having a celebratory campfire. He grins softly to himself, pulling the now done pizza out of the oven to cut.

Surely it’s nothing to worry about. This island is a haven, he’s made sure of it. And if it  _ is  _ any sort of trouble, he’ll figure it out soon enough. 

“Alright, settle down,” he chastises, carefully setting the pizza in the middle of the table. He smacks two pairs of greedy reaching hands away. “Let it cool down first, before you burn your tongues. Can’t you see the steam still coming off it?” 

When the boys finally tumble off to bed - after a good long argument about  _ exactly _ what time should be considered bedtime for boys their age - Tom finds himself sitting at the foot of his own bed, watching the record player as it slowly spins out soft crooning music. He cannot find it in himself to peel off his shoes, and rests right where he is for a moment, drifting off with the music, his mind wandering. He has to forcefully shake himself out of it just to stand. He hopes Isabelle left work when she said she would. He can’t imagine how tired she is as well. 

He doesn’t understand how Jonesy is out so late either. She runs around all day and still has the energy to be out and about, undoubtedly livening up whoever’s presence she’s in. He shakes his head and grins fondly to himself, finally gathering the strength to change into bed clothes so he can settle in for the night. 

His bed is comfortable. He’d made sure of this when he’d moved. He doesn’t consider himself to be particularly picky or in need of the finer things in life, but he  _ did  _ want a nice bed. Still, his nights are restless most of the time. He often fights to sleep, only to wake a few hours later and have to start the battle all over again. 

No matter. He’s done it before, and he’ll do it again. He’ll have coffee in the morning, as usual. Isabelle will just have to forgive him. His eye catches the smoke trail again, just outside his window, and he’s pretty sure that’s what he drifts off to, the lulling cadence of the music slowly luring him into sleep. 


	2. Redd Sky at Morn, Resident Be Warned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to those of you who have shown love so far! I originally planned to update every Friday, but am now changing that to Tuesdays :)

There’s something...  _ odd  _ about the paintings. Jonesy can’t put her finger on it, but there’s something that’s not quite right about them. There’s also poor lighting in the small shanty, which only leaves her to believe she  _ might _ have made the wrong choice just following a stranger into his abode on a boat. It’s the price for spontaneity, she supposed. It’s a good thing she has an axe handy, just in case things get messy. 

There’s soft music playing on an old stereo, and she’s surprised - and yet sort of not surprised - that it’s Sinatra. She’s seen enough crime shows to know that sometimes psychopaths love the stuff. This  _ could _ be the setup for her murder. 

“Pretty neat, aren’t they, cousin?” 

Jonesy blinks slowly at the endearment. He has to know they’re not related, right? They look nothing alike. But he’d insisted, and he had been so friendly, and she’s never been against making new friends. Everyone on the island had this way of being so genuine, and she had just assumed he was a visitor she hadn’t seen at the campsite. As the Resident Representative, she had felt she  _ should  _ introduce herself if he was going to stay awhile. He had a very charming way about him too, and it wasn’t too hard to be convinced to check out his artwork on sale. 

Fuck, he might  _ actually  _ be a psychopath. 

“Yeah, they’re pretty dope,” is what she says. But she glances towards the exit, trying to calculate just how hard it would be to whack him once across the head while he was turned around, and then make a run for it. She’s trying to raise her adrenaline, just in case it has to happen. And if she manages to escape and this strange guy doesn’t kill her, Tom Nook  _ definitely _ will when he finds out she just did something so, in his words,  _ rash _ . 

“What did you say your name was?” 

He cocks his head at her, and she can’t decide if he’s genuinely amused or if he’s deciding just how he’s going to bring about her demise. “I didn’t,” replies, putting out his cigarette butt against the sink he’s been leaning on for the past several minutes. Something about that grosses her out more than the obvious fact that there’s definitely mold in here. He extends a hand, and there’s a moment where she hesitates before finally taking it. It’s softer than she expected, which is kind of comforting. Surely murderers don’t have soft hands, right? 

Well, if they wear gloves, maybe they do. She steels herself and tries to remain calm and not immediately hurl over the side of the trawler. 

“It’s Redd,” he tells her, and after a firm shake, lets her hand go. She wipes it against her shorts. She’s definitely sweating. Either it’s the mugginess of the weather, or her gut is trying to tell her she’s in danger. She’s not sure which. “That’s Redd with two Ds, mind you.” 

“Redd, huh?”

He nods.

“What’s with the whole  _ cousin _ thing? That’s your sales pitch?” she questions, hands on her hips, and he coughs, chuckling under his breath. If she wasn’t so sure he was most likely a psychopath, she would swear he looks a bit sheepish. “Think if you lure them in with the false sense of family you’ll get more bells out of it?” 

He definitely looks insulted now, she can see it on his face. In fact, she’d say he almost looks  _ hurt _ . But then he’s grinning and waving his hand nonchalantly at her, a tell-tale blush creeping along his cheekbones. 

“You caught me,” he sighs, putting his hands up in mock surrender. “I can’t pull a fast one on you. But I already knew that. Which is why I consider you a close relative already.” 

He saunters over and drapes an arm around her, and she’s wishing she had a drink or two right about now. The over-familiarity is nothing short of strange, and she is nowhere near drunk enough for strange of any kind. “We’re two clever foxes, eh, cousin?” 

“Hmm.”  _ That _ makes her snicker. She’s been called a lot of things.  _ Clever  _ is not one of them. She hangs her arm around Redd’s neck anyways, leering right back and matching his laugh, her hand on her axe. If he tries anything funny in the next ten seconds, she’ll show him a really good joke that has a killer punchline. 

But he’s off in a minute, gesturing to the artwork again. “You seemed to really be attached to this  _ Calm Painting _ ,” he insists, and she remembers why it had thrown her off. It’s the  _ name _ . He’s given them all very generic names, and she’s fighting fuzzy memories of art history to place what it’s actually called. If he is a genuine fine arts salesman, he should  _ know  _ that. He’s deliberately giving it a different name, though. 

“You mean the Seurat?” 

She doesn’t miss the incredulous look in his eyes. She wonders if  _ he _ even knew what the original painting was. It had taken her a minute to remember the name. She has an inkling that he has no idea what pieces he’s picked up. 

Redd coughs. “Yeah, that,” he mutters, before picking up his chipper tone again. “A real stepping stone in the art renaissance, hmm?” 

“If you’re into pointillism, yeah,” Jonesy returns, inspecting it again. Either this Redd has somehow gotten his hands on the genuine artifact, or he’s excellent at re-creating masterpieces. She’s been around enough to know either is possible. “Personally, I can respect it, but it’s a bitch and a half to do.” 

She can’t identify the expression on his face. It looks like genuine curiosity, almost a spark of childlike interest. She recognizes that familiar sparkle in his eyes. But he doesn’t act on it, nor does he say anything, so she doesn’t want to presume. There’s a flickering silence before he glances at her, almost expecting her to continue. She doesn’t. She wants him to be the one talking more, seeing as he  _ is  _ the stranger on the island. 

He finally speaks. “You’re an artist?” is what he asks. She grins at this. 

“I dabble.” 

Redd is  _ definitely _ giving her a genuine smile now. It looks different from the strange and threatening smirk he was giving earlier. It has to be the eyes, she thinks. She’s always been particularly drawn to watching people’s eyes. Watching how they light up or dull down. Redd had had a dead glaze in his eyes up until now, which is why she’d thought that  _ maybe  _ he was a psychopath. But now?  _ Now  _ she can see it, that little twinkle, even in the low light. 

“Me too,” he admits, and  _ there’s  _ the kicker. This must be a hobby of his, which makes her wonder again why he  _ doesn’t  _ know A Sunday Afternoon. And now that her heart rate has slowed and her eyes have adjusted, she takes the time to look around and realize the clues all around her. There’s remnants of paint tubes and half filled dirty cups of paint water  _ everywhere _ . Not to mention stacks of sketchbooks and graphite lying around. 

“Looks like a little more than  _ dabbling _ ,” she comments aloud, and he flushes, shrugging. She runs her fingers over the top sketchbook, and then taps at it lightly. She glances up at him and sees he’s been watching her intently as soon as she touched it. “Do you mind if I…?” 

“Uh, yeah, yeah! Just…” Redd snatched the book out from under her, flipping through it quickly. He seems relieved when he hands it back. “Sorry, I’m not proud of  _ all  _ of my work. But this one is safe.” 

Jonesy cocks an eyebrow at him. “Safe, huh. What, you draw a lot of sex or something? No judgment, I get that,” she says, scanning the pages. Redd chokes, but leaves her to it, humming whatever is on the stereo. 

It’s very detailed. He has to be self-taught though, to be so naive about the artworks he’s selling. That only makes his personal work all the more impressive. The technicality is superb, and the amount of thought put into each piece is very apparent. There are a couple of freehand practice pages here and there, but even those catch her attention. She forgets she is standing there for a moment, lost in the pages, when she hears him clear his throat. 

“I forgot your name, kid, I’m sorry.” 

“Jonesy.”

“Right! Right. Look, did you wanna buy anything, Jonesy? I wasn’t under the impression that you just wanted to come visit little ol’ me. Not that I’m complaining. Always good to make connections.” 

Jonesy smirks. “I mean, I  _ did  _ want to say hello. That’s sort of my job around here. But,” she pauses to take a look at the painting again. It’s an original Seurat, she feels sure of it, now that she has had more than enough time to inspect it. “You’re right. The mention of art pieces caught my attention. Our museum curator has done nothing but babble on about how excited he is to add an arts wing in the building.” 

She winces. That sounded a bit rude. Blathers lives up to his name, but he is a nice enough fellow. “I’m happy to help,” she continues. “I like the guy.” 

“Sure, sure, that’s your job, as you mentioned,” Redd agrees half-heartedly. He’s already measuring out butcher paper and painters tape, carefully removing the piece from its stand. “And you  _ dabble _ yourself, so this has to be just as thrilling for you, eh?” 

“You could say that, yeah,” Jonesy replies. The boat is eerily quiet again, as he quickly gets to work wrapping the framed piece and taping it together. It’s Ella Fitzgerald now, low and soft on the stereo, and there’s a long and awkward pause. The only sound is the paper crinkling as it’s folded and creased into place. Jonesy is having the slightest suspicion that something is not quite right again, but she isn’t sure what. Redd places the now wrapped parcel on the table, but when she reaches for it, he moves it away quickly. 

“Bells first, please. Sorry. It’s a company policy,” he explains, a sharp-toothed grin in place. “And I’ll place it in your mailbox, if you’ll just jot down your address for me.” 

There’s another red flag. “You don’t have to do all of that,” Jonesy starts, smiling gently, but when she tries to place her hand on the parcel, again, he slides it away, ever so slightly. “I can carry it with me.” 

“There’s no way I’m letting a beautiful dabbler of the arts like yourself carry such a huge artifact like that! Especially when you have so many other things to worry about. Let me handle the shipping. It’ll be free of charge, on me. Family discount.” 

The words are coming out of his mouth so smoothly. Jonesy assumes if she was into men, he’d be her type. She likes easy talkers and laid-back personalities. But in this situation, everything feels off. There had been a moment when she had felt sure Redd was being genuine, but that moment seems to have passed, and the unsettling aura is back. There’s something he’s hiding. She’s just not sure  _ what _ .

Despite her better judgment though, she counts out the owed amount, and hands him the bells. 

“Thank you for your purchase, cousin,” Redd chirps, a little too cheery, pocketing the bells before she can ask any questions. What’s done is done now, she supposes. Hopefully she didn’t just make the worst financial decision of her life. And if she  _ did _ , by any chance, she doesn’t necessarily have to tell Mr. Nook about it, right? At least she knows he’s not a murderer. 

She’s pretty sure by now, anyways. 

She wants to try to continue the conversation and possibly bring back that warmth she’d seen in him. But before she can try for anymore small talk, he’s edging her towards the exit. The sun is so bright in comparison to the darkness in his tent that she has to squint to watch her step as she clambers out, glancing behind her to see Redd waving her off. 

“You’ll have it in the mail by tomorrow! Pleasure doing business with you!” he calls, just before disappearing again. She looks after the flap, watching it close, before shaking her head and heading up the beach, still mulling over everything that had just happened. 

Isabelle hadn’t mentioned any visitors this morning. She wonders if maybe Redd just hadn’t realized that he was supposed to stop by the Resident building. After all, he has his boat docked on the far Northern side, and that’s nowhere near the airport or the neighborhood. Most of this area of the island is pretty barren now, especially because she has been busy landscaping it. Which, speaking of, she still has her secret beach to work on. She grins at the sudden reminder, already distracted and settling into work on piecing together outdoor lounge chairs and a small table for drinks. 

It’s an easy project, but it’s a long project, and by the time she settles in to check the time, hours have gone by. She’s been out longer than she’d anticipated too, and she’s forgotten to bring water. She hadn’t thought of it in her excitement to finish her beach. She takes a long look at the furniture she’s built, patting the arm of the lounge chair in satisfaction, before crashing into it, closing her eyes. There’s sweat on her brow, and she’s feeling herself grow lethargic from the heat, but the chair is one-hundred percent comfortable. The only thing that could make it better would be a good drink in hand, and an umbrella. She’ll have to work on getting one of those put together. She can probably find a DIY from the Cranny, and then pester Mr. Nook at his workbench while she crafts it. 

“Shit!” she exclaims. She never told Nook about the incline. She’d completely forgotten. 

She jumps out of the chair, rushing towards the main town, only stopping at her house to grab a drink before she passes out from dehydration. The situation she had just been through was all extremely odd, the more she thinks about it. That Redd had been awfully friendly up until the purchase. The way he’d hurried her off the boat afterwards was suspicious at best. 

Maybe it was the fact she’d snooped through his art. Maybe she shouldn’t have asked. Art is a private sort of thing. When she looks back on it, she realizes she might have made  _ him _ uncomfortable without realizing it. She almost thinks about heading back to apologize, but from the way he’d seemed eager to get her off and going on her way, she doesn’t think he’ll welcome her returning all too well. 

“Hey, Jonesy!”

“Jonesy!” 

The sun hits her eyes again, and she squints out for a moment or two before making out the shape of Ketchup, who is flagging her down from the agora. Right behind her is Cheri, and she doesn’t miss the fact that they’re wearing pretty complementary outfits. She makes her way over, already grinning and ready to hear what they have to say. 

She’s not supposed to have favorites, but these two are, without a doubt, the most fun to spend time with. She probably spends more time with them than she does in the Residential building, and that’s saying something, considering she’s in there quite a lot. They’re bubbly and outgoing, and it’s easy to make conversation with them. The fact that they always have island gossip doesn’t hurt, either. 

Well, almost always. She’s pretty sure they don’t know about their little northward seaside visitor. 

“Jonesy, we have the coolest idea,” Ketchup is practically bubbling out, she’s so excited. Cheri is holding a box that’s part way open, wiggling her eyebrows madly. Ketchup loops their arms together, walking her towards the public seating. “You remember how we were all out at the small campsite by the airport and we had a total jam sesh?”

“I’m a little fuzzy on the details, thanks to the tequila we had, but yes, I have a slight memory of it,” Jonesy replies, taking a seat with them and thinking back on it. It had been a nice warm evening too, and they’ve had nothing but rain since then. It had been a week, until today. She’s thinking they’re due another small get together in the same fashion. 

“Well, Cheri and I were thinking… we should  _ totally _ start a local girl group! You, me, and Cheri! We could practice and then put on local shows!  _ And  _ maybe we could even tour like K.K.,” Ketchup sighs, folding her hands together in admiration. “Maybe we could even tour  _ with  _ him…” 

“God, wouldn’t that be dreamy?” Cheri interjects.

“ _ He’s  _ dreamy,” Ketchup murmurs, still clearly visualizing a pop star's future. 

Jonesy grins and shrugs at this. “As long as I get to hash it out on drums,” she replies. “You know how I like a good beat.” 

She’s instantly bombarded by a group hug from both of the other girls. “We gotta come up with a name!” Cheri exclaims, squeezing her. “It has to be a really rad name too. Nothing too cheesy, but definitely creative. Something that defines us!”

“We have  _ all _ night to figure that out,” she tells them, grabbing their hands. “And I have the  _ perfect  _ place.” 

Their eyes light up, because they already know exactly what she is referring to. She’s been telling them for weeks that she’s been working on making a hangout spot for them. It took long enough just to clear the trees and create a whole new path to lead up to it. Cheri shakes the box, which Jonesy  _ still  _ hadn’t seen inside yet, but she supposes that will happen soon enough. She hops off of the seat, gesturing for the other girls to follow, and they eagerly oblige, right in her heels, invested in small talk as they follow behind. They’ll have to make a pit stop at her house, but she’s sure they won’t mind. The drinks and food will make it worth the wait. 

“God, did you see Kody working out on the beach today? The  _ true _ getaway package.” 

“Cheri! You are  _ such _ a creep.”

“What? He was out there,  _ in public _ , swinging his “glutes” around. What's a girl like me to do? Pretend it doesn’t exist?”

Jonesy, just ahead, laughs. “Gotta admire art when you see it, huh?” she eggs her, watching Ketchup sigh and shake her head, grinning in disbelief. 

“You’re  _ both  _ unbelievable.”

Jonesy winks at Cheri and slows her pace as they near her house, slinging an arm around Ketchup. She heads into the kitchen with her, digging through the cabinets for chasers and whatever liquor she has left from their last get together. There’s half empty bottles of whiskey, less than a pint of rum, and the tequila is  _ completely  _ gone. She winces and gives Ketchup a questioning look, holding up the whiskey. 

“Jack and rum sound good? It goes well with coke. Or we can just down shots and call it a night.” 

“Let’s do it with coke, sis,” Ketchup cringes, grabbing at the cans. “You know I can’t stand the taste of alcohol on its own. You’ve got me confused for Freya.”

This is true. Jonesy never thought she’d meet someone who could down shots like water until she’d met Freya. That girl’s power to swallow liquor as if it was nothing both amazed and scared her. She handles the alcohol in one arm, dragging Ketchup back out again, where Cheri is waiting, sunglasses down to stop the glare of the sun. 

They’re discussing a couple of different names by the time they reach the beach. Ketchup dumps the coke cans onto the table, taking the setup into account. 

“Jonesy, it looks  _ amaze _ , girl,” she practically squeals, settling into one of the chairs immediately and sinking down. She stretches out and kicks her sandals off. Cheri isn’t far behind, plopping down on the chair next to her, dialing in her phone. Jonesy shakes her head, laughing under her breath and setting down the liquor. 

“What’s the mood tonight, ladies?” Cheri asks, fingers tapping away. “I’m thinking upbeat or empowering, especially since Jonesy just completed a no doubt hard and tiring project.”

“Yes!” Ketchup agrees, clasping her hands together. She’s already measuring out shots to mix drinks, humming cheerfully. “Get the mood started, Cheri!” 

Cheri obliges. It’s a good get together, and Jonesy finds it especially gratifying after having run around the island for hours to accomplish anything. If she had  _ set  _ hours, it wouldn’t be a problem, but there’s no real boundaries on her job, and she tends to over work herself without meaning to. She forgets to relax every once in a while, which is why she’s more grateful than ever that she is lucky enough to have friends like these two. She takes one of the drinks Ketchup made, lifting her cup to them in a mock toast.

“To the girls,” she announces. Cheri sits up from the chair to clink their cups together. 

“To the girls,” she returns.

“We could call ourselves To The Girls!” Ketchup chimes in. Jonesy shares a look with Cheri before shrugging. 

“We can write it down,” is what she says. 

Cheri is distracted though, eyes landing on the boat docked only a few feet away. “Wait,” she interjects, halting Ketchup’s train of thought. She points, to which the other two follow with their eyes. “What’s that?” 

“Oh!” Jonesy exclaims. She grins sheepishly. “I forgot to tell you guys. We have a new islander. I think? I don’t know. He’s an art vendor of some sort. I bought something from him today.”

“On  _ that  _ dinky, dirty thing?” Cheri questions, crinkling her nose. “You’re braver than me. I wouldn’t get near something like that!” She stops herself, caught in a thought. “God, that sounded snooty. I’m sure he’s nice.”

Jonesy doesn’t respond to this. She’s not entirely sure if  _ nice _ is the way to describe who she’d met on that boat. Although he wasn’t exactly  _ rude,  _ either. She pours herself another drink, plopping herself down on the sand in front of them. 

“Let’s see what’s in the box, Cheri,” she says, waving her drink towards the object in question. “I’ve been dying to see what genius concoction you have hidden in there.”

This seems to satisfy them, and they’re pulling out outfits for their local band idea. Jonesy has to disagree with about half of them, but they come to a compromise that as long as she doesn’t have to be too dressed up, she’ll wear the matching colors of pink and yellow. Ketchup designated band roles, and it takes a good hour long conversation before she and Cheri agree to take turns on solos. Jonesy looks on, drinking her weight’s worth, knowing she’s going to regret it tomorrow. Possibly not, though. She’s never really had designated hours for work. 

“Hey! No one told me this was the party side of the island!” 

The three of them stop mid-conversation, turning to see where the voice came from. Jonesy’s face breaks into a wide grin, waving immediately.

“Would have invited you!” she calls back to the boat, where Redd is leaning against the helm. “I didn’t take you for a party kinda guy.”

Redd hops off into the sand, and Jonesy doesn’t miss the way Cheri’s eyes widen in interest. She gives him a once over, but says nothing, grinning to herself and pretending to have a sudden distraction with her phone. Redd approaches them, hands on his hips and a wild light in his eyes. But perhaps it’s just the campfire. “Then I did a  _ lousy _ job of introducing myself to you earlier, cousin,” he replies. He cocks his head towards the drinks. “Mind if I pour myself a glass?”

“If Red Solos count as  _ glasses _ to you, pour away,” Jonesy invites, waving him towards it. “Help yourself,  _ primo _ .” 

“That’s your  _ cousin _ ?” Ketchup asks, eyes wide. Jonesy has to laugh, throwing her head back. She gives Redd a look. “Yeah, make  _ that  _ make sense, Redd,” she tells him, while he chuckles and scratches the back of his neck. She points towards the two girls. “These are my friends, Ketchup and Cheri. Ketchup and Cheri, this is Redd. The romantic little artist on an ark.”

“I wouldn’t call myself an  _ artist _ ,” Redd starts, flushing, but he doesn’t get far. Ketchup and Cheri are a good several drinks in, and they’re up in an instant, bombarding him with drunkenly excited questions. It doesn’t take long before he’s settled right in, almost as if he’d known them for much longer than half an hour. Jonesy finds it pretty admirable; although the islanders are friendly as a whole, the way Redd has made himself right at home is a little endearing. He has Cheri dying of laughter on his arm, and Ketchup with a hand over her mouth, aghast at whatever he’s just said. They’re all a little drunk, she can tell, and Redd is definitely thriving off of the company. 

“Oh these are  _ darling _ ,” Redd is murmuring, and Jonesy has no clue what on  _ earth _ he’s prattling on about until she sees him holding up the outfits that Cheri and Ketchup have set aside. “You ladies have an eye for color. There’s nothing more enviable than a good palette.”

Ketchup beams with pride, and Cheri claps in delight. They’re eagerly sharing their plans for a local band, to which Jonesy notices that genuine spark again. Redd makes himself comfortable in the sand, and she watches as his eyes bounce back and forth between the two girls, intently drinking in every word they’re saying. Her read on him is complicated. He clearly has  _ something _ to hide, according to his behavior earlier, but at the same time, he seems to have an old and gentle soul somewhere underneath. Something is just not adding up. 

Her intuition only flies all the more off the rails when she hears a familiar voice, shouting very non-familiar things from behind them. She whips around to see Tom Nook storming towards them, with Isabelle right on his heels. She can’t see either of their faces, but from the tone of his voice - and the crowd of the other islanders behind them - she knows  _ instantly _ that it’s not good. 

“Redd? How the  _ hell _ did you find this place?” Mr. Nook’s voice thunders across the beach. Cheri and Ketchup freeze their conversation, turning to look at Jonesy for some sort of explanation. She can only shrug at them, before putting her eyes back on Nook.  _ He  _ seems to have his gaze fixed on Redd, who doesn’t respond. 

“Boss?” she calls after him, trying to catch his attention. Maybe he’ll explain. Or maybe it’s not as bad as she thinks. Maybe the alcohol is rendering her dramatic.

“ _ Snookums _ ! Long time no see, buddy!”

“Get the  _ fuck _ off of my island!”

Scratch that. It’s about as bad as she’s thought. Actually, she’s pretty sure it’s much worse.


	3. Man Overboard

“Come on now, Tom, is that anyway to greet an old partner?” Redd crows, leering at him. 

There are a thousand questions going through Tom’s mind at this moment. But the main one is repeatedly making itself known, almost flashing in front of him in bright red letters:  _ How _ . 

_ How _ has this slippery son of a no good liar found him? He had taken  _ every _ precaution to ensure that he had no chance of following or encountering him. And yet, here he stands, staring down the beach, seeing him there, and he’s the same as he remembers. Charming, cocky, and  _ counterfeit _ . He could sock that aggravating smile right off of his face, except it wouldn’t be very professional of him. But Redd had always been so good at pulling the unprofessional out of him. It hurts to think about. 

When Isabelle had informed him this morning that there was a boat on the far northside of the beach, he had initially assumed it was a random passerby. It couldn’t have been a visitor, seeing as they had a process in place for all of that. His best guess had landed on someone merely stopping by. This island is not usually someone’s destination. But then Isabelle had taken a closer look and revealed the nature of the boat and the flag’s trademark symbol, and his blood had almost quite literally run cold. 

He never thought he’d have to hear, see, or even  _ think _ about this crooked character again. The last one has been harder to do over the years than he’d imagined. Now, he’s having to do all three. 

“Mr. Nook?” Jonesy calls again, and his vision clears, just enough to finally tear his eyes away from Redd to lock onto her. Now he’s wondering just how long she’s known about Redd, and exactly what they’ve been doing together this entire time. At least  _ now  _ he knows what distracted her from stopping by the Resident Services again. Unfortunately, he’s not too eager about what he’s found. 

She’s waiting on an answer, drink in hand. “Is something wrong?”

“Jonesy,” he murmurs, just as he reaches her side. Two of the islanders, whose names he can’t remember, are staring at him, wide eyed and petrified. He tries to calm his heart rate at this. It won’t do any good to scare anyone off. Redd will only have a field day with that. When he speaks again, it’s through clenched teeth. “When did this scamming little  _ fraud  _ find his way on the island?”

“ _ Snookums _ , you’re too flattering…” Redd croons, but Tom holds a hand up, scowling. 

“Don’t you even  _ start _ ,” he growls at him. “You’re lucky these ladies didn’t know who you are.” 

“I just met him earlier today,” Jonesy is whispering out of the corner of her mouth. She glances up at him without moving her head, and he’s grateful that she seems to be picking up on the situation quickly enough to try and have  _ some  _ tact, despite her obvious intoxication. “I bought a Suerat off of him.” 

“A  _ what _ ?” Tom nearly chokes, but catches himself just in time. 

“I thought he was just a new visitor. He seemed nice enough.”

Tom nods at this, patting her shoulder. He’s trying to be gentle, but he’s stuck in tunnel vision, still eyeing Redd across the campfire. Not only had he managed to plant his feet on this island, without his knowledge  _ nor _ his permission, he’s already managed to fool three of his islanders into thinking he was a standup sort of guy. He knows the truth to be more sinister. 

“You’re not allowed to be here.” 

“And what are you going to do about it, hmm? Surely you wouldn’t be so  _ inhospitable _ in front of your entire community?” Redd takes a step forward, taunting. He’s already enjoying this. Tom has never forgotten how he hates him, but he’s remembering the details of  _ why _ so clearly. “We wouldn’t want our fearless leader to be such a poor example, now would we?” 

“For you, I’ll make an exception,” Tom threatens in return, trying to remain collected. He has to stand his ground. There is no way he is going to let Redd verbally maneuver his way onto this island. He gives Jonesy a glance, jerking his head towards the Resident Area behind them, and it takes her a moment before her glazed eyes snap to attention, and she waves the other girls towards her. There is a fleeting moment where he feels pained, watching the way they run to Jonesy and away from him. Even Jonesy’s eyes are wide, confused and waiting for an explanation. He won’t be giving it to her now, unfortunately. This isn’t the time nor the place. 

She gives him one last questioning look before chatting up the other islanders until they’ve placed their interest in what she’s saying. Isabelle - bless her heart, frazzled and winded - is besides her in an instant, obviously relieved that someone has a handle on things. 

“Alright, so I don’t have enough booze for everyone, but if we go back by my place, drinks are on  _ moi _ ,” Jonesy is announcing. Tom has to stamp onto Redd’s foot before he can make any move towards them. “And then we can hit the boardwalk and do a little karaoke, how’s that sound?”

There are some cheers coming from the other islanders, and Jonesy gives him a reassuring wink before continuing, already making her way towards her home. “I know that Cheri and Ketchup have some performance practice that they’d love to let you guys sit in on, right ladies?” 

The girls seem to sputter back to life, both babbling at once, and he watches as the crowd finds their interest in whatever is going to occur at the boardwalk. It leaves him wishing that he was also going. Unfortunately, he’s stuck with the grunt work of the situation. It isn’t as if he hadn’t signed up for it. He just hadn’t realized that the work in question would be this disaster of a situation.

Redd is watching him with absolute delight. It’s obvious that this is all amusing to him. “Tom, Tom, ease off will you?” he clicks his tongue at him, patronizing enough to leave him slightly homicidal. “You’re not still sore about our little disagreement all those years ago, are you?” 

With the villagers gone by now, there’s nothing stopping him. He lunges forward and clasps Redd’s shirt, thrusting him backwards into the sand. Redd sputters and coughs, that same aggravating grin still plastered across his face. Smug. If Tom was a worse man, he’d wipe it off permanently and bury him six feet into the sand. Redd is lucky he is  _ not _ a worse man. Or perhaps he’s lucky that Tom doesn’t want to ruin Jonesy’s pride and joy of a beach with Redd’s sorry hypothetical corpse.

“You know  _ exactly _ what you did, you lying piece of shit.” 

Redd chuckles at this, but he doesn’t get up. He’s leaning against his elbows, almost as if waiting to be hit again, as if that’s what he  _ wants _ to happen next. The worst part is, this disgusts Tom so much he almost  _ doesn’t _ want to continue pummeling him. He knows this is Redd’s way of playing with his emotions. He’s been around the criminal long enough to know how he worms his way into people’s minds or hearts for his own financial benefit. He’s been on the receiving end before. It won’t happen again. 

“Now get out of here, or the next blow you get from me will leave a mark that you won’t recover from.” 

“Wow, Snookums, a  _ blow _ already? We just reunited,” Redd sneers, slowly standing. He dusts the sand off of his clothes, his eyes never straying. “I always thought  _ I  _ was the more lewd one, but you’re really…”

“Get the fuck  _ out _ of here!” Tom shouts, fists clenched and ready. He takes a swing, cracking Redd across the jaw. Redd jumps to his feet, hands up, but he ducks the next hook, hitting him with an uppercut. Redd grapples at his shirt, and they’re both down, scrambling to land a hit on each other at whatever chance they get. Redd jams a knee into his side, and it takes everything in him not to scream. He inhales sharply instead before jerking Redd’s head down by his ear and clambering over him, a harsh hand slamming him down into the sand again. He aims his fist again, but Redd catches him barely in time, clasping at his wrist and thrusting him off as hard as he can, panting. Tom scrambles to his feet, and Redd follows. 

They’re in a standoff, and Tom can hear his heart beating in his ears. They’re both breathing heavily. He will beat Redd onto his boat if he has to. He doesn’t care if that’s what has to happen to get him to  _ leave _ . It’s a worthy price. Not to mention, he now knows he still has  _ years  _ of wounded sensibilities that he’d love to drop kick on Redd right now. Redd has finally dropped his smile, his face darkening. He holds his hands up, backing onto his boat. His true colors are out now, Tom can see it on his face. He watches silently, still coiled and ready to spring, if need be. The pretense of familiarity and warmth is gone. He would almost  _ shiver _ at how easily he’s transformed, if he cared.

“I see how it is,  _ Mr. Nook _ ,” Redd’s voice is full of faux respect, slippery and  _ venomous _ , and Tom wonders where he got the audacity to be offended, as if he is the victim in this situation. His talent of being obtuse to everyone around him is not surprising, but it stings nonetheless. He bows mockingly before tugging at the anchor. “You move out here and decide you’re just too good for city folk like me, eh?”

“You  _ know _ that’s not what it is,” Tom returns. His heart rate has not changed, still quick and ready to pounce. He keeps his fists at his sides, waiting. He’s afraid of what will happen if he dares to let them unclench for even one second. Old habits are hard to kill, and Redd is one of his oldest and longest running habits. “Your words mean nothing to me now, Redd. I’m not the naive young man you met all those years ago. I won’t fall for your magic tricks.”

“A pity,” Redd sighs, wistfully. Tom cannot tell if this is a genuine emotion or not, and promptly decides either answer is a poor one. Redd hoists the anchor over his shoulder, and their eyes lock. Redd does not move, as if waiting for something, but whatever it is he wants, Tom refuses to give. He crosses his arms and waits until Redd finally rolls his eyes and grins, giving a small wave before disappearing into his boat. 

“Pleasure seeing you again, Snookums!” he hears, just as he’s turned around. It takes everything in him to not give a response. He knows that this is exactly what Redd wants. 

He stands there on the beach, his back to the sea, waiting until he cannot hear the engine chugging away, and even then, he waits, just in case. It takes longer than he’d like to admit before he turns, half expecting to still see him there, eyebrow cocked and grin crooked. He doesn’t quite know how to describe the way he feels when he faces an empty shore. He isn’t sure he wants to try. 

His hands are still shaking as he trudges towards the Resident Service building. If the islanders who see him want to ask anything, they don’t act on it. He can feel them whispering to each other or simply staring after, curious and probably more than a little afraid. He owes the two girls from earlier an apology. He could see from their dashed and torn expressions that he had confused and probably traumatized them. It definitely wasn’t the paradise experience he’d promised. He’ll have to find some way to make it up to them. Jonesy seems close enough to them; he’ll ask her what she thinks is best. 

Whatever he does, he’s going to have to clean up this mess. Somehow. For now he just breathes in, and out. If he just takes enough slow deep breaths, maybe he can calm the shaky feeling in his stomach. Coffee is probably not the best option, but he still finds himself craving it’s warm and sweet comfort. He gives his watch a quick glance to see how much time he has before entering the Resident Service building, making sure it isn’t time to swing by the twins at the shop yet. Up further South, he can hear the islanders, having a grand old time on their own, any worries they’d had from earlier seemingly forgotten. There is definitely a good bass going, tremoring under his feet. He sighs, weary. At least  _ some  _ of this island’s residents are having a good time. 

He’s met with Isabelle and Jonesy, who had been previously engaged in a deep discussion before he’d barged in, doors swinging open on their hinges. Isabelle makes herself busy with heating up water, but Jonesy leans her elbow on the counter, eyes dark and curious. She’s going to face this situation head on, he knows, and she won’t stop until she gets a satisfactory conclusion. Unfortunately, he also knows that he does not have the best temperament to follow her ambition in this particular venture. He’s already plotting how to avoid this conversation despite knowing it’s a failed endeavor.

“You okay, Mr. Nook?” she asks carefully. He can tell she wants to find a way to lighten the situation up a bit from the way her hands make small fists as she punches the air playfully. “If you need a punching bag I  _ just  _ gifted one to Kody a while back. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind letting you borrow it.”

“I got my licks in, thank you,” Tom replies smoothly, keeping it plain and simple. Jonesy whistles, raising her hands and clapping. Always one for the theatrics. He rolls his eyes. 

“You wanna let me in on the information, Boss? What’s the 411 on the guy that had you out there terrorizing my private beach like we’d stumbled into Bundy?”

Tom doesn’t want to talk about it. He’d rather pretend it hadn’t even happened at all, to be honest. He’d  _ like  _ to go home and warm up the cinnamon buns left over after a very messy and panicked breakfast this morning. Every time he thinks of Redd, he sees red - no pun intended. He cannot stop replaying what had just gone down between them, and every time, his pulse climbs up again, against his will. He pushes into his work area and collapses into his seat before replying. And even then, he doesn’t answer her question. He has questions of his own for her concerning Redd.

“How did you even get  _ involved  _ with him?”

Jonesy colors a little, laughing guiltily. “I kinda just... wandered into his boat?” she gives weakly, tugging at her hair. She doesn’t meet his eyes. “I didn’t really think about it when I went in there. Not my strongest decision, in retrospect. His pad is super sketch, by the way.”

Tom feels his blood starting to boil again, and he  _ knows  _ it’s not her fault and he shouldn’t be mad at her, but the frustration with her windswept behavior is bubbling up anyways. Usually the consequences are only inconvenient. This particular result is making him want to disappear from existence. He cannot fathom for a moment why she would just meander onto his boat and make small talk with the man. Perhaps it’s just his twisted vision of him, but Redd practically oozes suspicion and deceit when he sees him, which he’s made sure is rare.

“ _ Amazing _ artist, though,” Jonesy is continuing. She’s focused on Isabelle now, grabbing her hands. She fake swoons and Isabelle laughs. “And the pipes of an  _ angel _ . You should have heard him…”

“I don’t want you going near him again,” Tom interrupts. Jonesy drops her act with Isabelle and is trained on him again, crossing her arms. “And why is  _ that _ ?” she questions, pushing up against his side of the counter. It feels inquisitive, and even though he’s  _ pretty _ sure he’s the boss, he feels like a rowdy student at the principal’s desk. 

He doesn’t want to talk about it. If he does, he’s not sure what’s going to come out. He  _ knows  _ it will only be a mess. He didn’t move hundreds of miles away, uproot his small family and invest millions of bells just for chaos to follow him. Otherwise, it was a poor venture. He’s starting to think it is. He seems to have a knack for putting his bells in the wrong places.

“He’s a sham, Jonesy. I’ve had bad business with him before. And I  _ really _ despise the fact that you just wandered onto his ship, without  _ any  _ idea who he was, without letting me know first.”

Jonesy rolls her eyes and snorts. “Okay,  _ Dad _ ,” she teases. He doesn’t smile. Her face drops. 

“Wait, you’re serious?” 

“I’m  _ always _ serious, Jonesy. Just because you don’t take it that way…” he starts, but she’s already losing her stern brow and trying hard to stifle a giggle. “I  _ mean _ it. I wouldn’t be surprised if that Soren you bought is fake.”

“You mean the Suerat?”

Tom exhales heavily and pinches the bridge of his nose hard. He’s finding it particularly hard to breathe. He can almost  _ see  _ the smoke coming out of his nostrils. “ _ Whatever _ it was, it’s probably a rip off. You got scammed. If I know Redd, and unfortunately, I do, I’m  _ sure  _ of it.” 

Jonesy reaches over for him, pulling his chair closer to the counter. He can hear the wheels slowly turn as he slides across the floor. She looks worried now, and serious. He quickly decides it’s not a good look on her. 

“Just don’t worry about it, okay?” he continues. Her face scrunches up in thought. She looks upset. Something is turning in her mind, and she seems perplexed about it. “I get that he seemed like a great guy, but trust me…”

“No, not  _ that _ ,” Jonesy stops him, sneering playfully. She shoves at him. “I was thinking about Blathers. He was  _ so  _ stoked about an art wing.”

She sighs in disappointment, pouting. “Where am I gonna find someone now?” She turns back to him, and he sees it already in her eyes. The same glint when she got the incline, which he  _ still  _ hasn’t seen. He’s shaking his head before she can even talk.

“No,  _ Jonesy _ , I’m serious,  _ no…” _

“ _ C’mon, _ ” Jonesy is begging, hands shaking his in a prayer clench. He can’t let her win though. Not this time. Not for  _ this.  _ “I  _ promise _ I know art. I could totally just play him back! I don’t even think he knows what’s fake and what’s real. He didn’t even know the  _ name  _ of the Suerat. I had to tell him! I could get him back and haggle to get him to downcharge, I can beat him at his own game…”

“Jonesy, no you couldn’t! He made it his  _ entire  _ career to cheat people. I  _ know _ !”

“You know? How do you _ know _ him? You never answered my question!”

“Just  _ trust  _ me!”

“Who got you K.K.? Who helped you build this island from the ground up?  _ Me _ , boss! You can trust  _ me _ . I'm telling you, I  _ got _ this…”

“And  _ I’m  _ telling  _ you _ to  _ stay away,  _ Jonesy! Just  _ listen _ to me and stop being so irresponsible for  _ once _ !” Tom interrupts, a whirlwind fist slipping out of her grip and colliding with his counter. It is louder than he’d intended it to be, and in an instant, he knows he’s made a mistake. The silence that follows is heavy and frightening. Isabelle gasps quietly next to him, not knowing what to say. He can see her shrinking into her chair out of the corner of his eye, burying herself in her plants.

He swallows hard, heart sinking and pounding heavily in his stomach as he watches a strange look come across Jonesy’s face. This is  _ not _ how he’d expected this conversation to go. She looks angry, as if she’s about to lash out at him. He will deserve it, if she does. He holds his ground, waiting for her counterattack.

“Hm.  _ Okay _ .” Jonesy mutters, smacking her tongue. Somehow, her calm demeanor stings worse. He finds himself wishing she  _ would  _ yell at him. Tell him off a bit, so they’re even.

“Jonesy…” he starts, reaching for her, but she turns and leaves him alone with Isabelle, letting the door swing-slam behind her. The deafening hollow in the air hurts, especially in comparison to the commotion that had just conspired. It feels like a slap. 

His hands are shaking. He’d completely forgotten to get coffee. It’s no matter now. Coffee wouldn’t be strong enough at this point. He needs a genuine stiff drink.

“Isabelle, I…” His voice is shaking too. This isn’t good. Quite the opposite- this is horrible. This is  _ exactly _ what he had been trying to avoid by moving so far away. He had worked so hard to build a paradise, to protect himself, and it is falling apart so fast. He couldn’t fix the problem; he made it  _ worse _ . Redd, even after all of this time, still has a hold on him, as desperately as he’d tried to pry himself free of it. Not only has he failed to keep himself safe, now he’s exposed the entire island to it. And he’s sure that they’ve seen Jonesy leave the building the way she did. He doesn’t think her to be a spiteful or petty person, but he cannot find it in himself to blame her if she  _ does  _ tell someone about it. 

“Mr. Nook,” Isabelle starts, voice very quiet. He turns to her desperately. He’s just lost Jonesy, he’s  _ sure _ of it. He was extremely out of pocket for shouting at her that way. There is absolutely no way their relationship will be the same after the disrespect he had just shown her. He can’t lose Isabelle too. She looks perplexed, as if arguing inside herself about what she wants to say, and it’s sickening, because he’s  _ sure _ she’s afraid he will snap on her the same way. This isn’t the image he wants to make of himself to anyone. 

“Isabelle, I’m so sorry you had to see this. I’m…” Tom freezes. He has nothing to say. There is no excuse for what he just did. There is no reason to explain why he’d behaved the way he had - none that would make sense, anyways. After everything that had just happened in the last few hours, he’s  _ exhausted _ . His hands are trembling terribly. There are a thousand thoughts crowding into the forefront of his mind, and none of them are pleasant.

Isabelle pours a cup of tea and slides it towards him. He looks up, shocked. She sits directly across from him, hands folded atop his desk. She breathes in very slowly before speaking, and he braces himself internally before meeting her eyes.

“Is there something we need to talk about?” she asks, when their eyes lock. Her voice is soft, but stern. He winces. “And I need the  _ truth _ .”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit shorter, I apologize. But here is chapter 3. At this point, I can't stop.


	4. Shipwrecked and Stranded

Pushing ice against his cheek hurts, but if he doesn’t deal with it now, it will leave a bruise, and then there is no earthly way he’ll be able to come up with a tall tale about _that_. Tom had a heavy hand though, so he’s confident that there is going to be a bruise anyways, ice or no ice. He’s going to have to nurse this for a week or two before he returns. 

He didn’t know what else he’d expected when Tom saw him again. Somewhere in his mind, he wanted to believe that maybe, after all this time, the anger had died down for him. He knows that this was just wishful thinking, but he is a wishful man. He’s come to accept that. It comes with its drawbacks though, his bruising cheek and stinging heart being _two_ of them. He sighs aloud, holding the ice against his face and wincing at the cold. He lowers the needle on the record, settling into the old recliner. He lets the compress rest against his cheekbone for a minute longer before tossing it away, restless.

He almost hadn’t believed it when he’d heard about the place. Tom Nook had always had this idealized version of society - and economy, he had always gotten onto him about that - and somehow, he had realized it. Redd remembers doing a double take when he’d heard the words _Nook Inc_ coming out of a passerby’s mouth. He didn’t ask any questions, but he’d listened in as she’d excitedly explained to her family and friends that she was moving, as soon as possible, to this apparent paradise on a remote island. Even then, it took awhile before he finally mustered up the curiosity to come take a look for himself, and low and behold, it existed. 

A part of him is proud of Tom. Despite everything, he still has such soft feelings for the guy. If he had a choice, he’d demolish them entirely. He’s sure Tom does not return the sentiment, especially after their brawl.

He hadn’t been prepared to fight. Before Tom had connected his fist with his jaw, he hadn’t planned on laying a hand on him. But he had riled him up too much, as he was prone to do, and Tom is still sore about their past. 

He really can’t blame the guy. What he’d done was close to unforgivable. But he couldn’t let Tom stay comfortable with him. They were getting too close for his own sanity. Even now, there are still remnants of Tom Nook with him, in his music choices, in his sketchbooks, in his coffee. He’ll never drink it, he hates the stuff, but something about the smell brings back warm memories that he’s not sure he’ll ever be able to let go of. He tells himself it’s because he likes the song, because artists practice faces for perfection, because he _needs_ coffee to wake up - hey who doesn’t? Caffeine is an addiction. 

As many times as he plays _Call Me Irresponsible_ though, it never fails to render him in tears. He can scribble away his memories of Tom’s face on paper until his sketchbook is full, it’s never quite perfect enough for him. He can pretend he’s going to trade away the coffee pot every time he encounters a wandering market, he still finds himself every morning with that same pot full, same heart empty. 

Tom had never felt the same. He knows this. It was for the best that he’d severed things before he’d embarrassed himself. It doesn’t change the fact that he stays wistful, reminiscing a little, fantasizing a lot. But memories and fantasies are easier for him to cope with. There are no repercussions for them, no matter where his mind wanders. It’s reality that comes with consequences he’s afraid of. If he saw a therapist, they’d probably tell him he was afraid of not being in control, and that he’ll sabotage a good thing just to avoid a hypothetical bad thing. But hey, it hadn’t failed him yet. 

Nursing his bruise though, he’s wondering if maybe it has this time. 

It isn’t as if he’d expected to just instantly sweep Tom off of his feet the moment they’d reunited - although that _would_ have been perfect, if you asked his opinion. But he hadn’t expected the reaction to be so explosive, so violent. He’s never known Tom to be a violent man. At the very worst, he had assumed Tom would have merely smarted off a bit, before begrudgingly letting him make camp and do business. Each in their own corner minding their own, so to say. Besides, from what he’d gathered talking with the islander girl who’d bought his painting, his business was _needed_. Tom had never turned down an offer for the good of the community.

He flips his sketchbook open, the one she’d been looking through earlier. There was something about her he’d liked, although he couldn’t put his finger on it. Smart, for one, seeing as he couldn’t trick her into an exuberant price. He always got along well with other like-minded folks, and she seemed to have the same tastes as he did, but with a _name_ to it. He gets the feeling he would have learned a thing or two from her. But it’s something else, too. 

He groans, realizing. He’s _lonely_. The world of business is not one for making friends, in his personal experience. The moment some wide-eyed genuine soul comes his way, he’s tempted to drop everything to try and build some sort of connection. At least Tom has his island. He doesn’t even have a family member badgering him on his phone. No one calls, except to accuse him of some sort of fraudulence. They’re right, of course, but it still hurts. He knows he should stop, but the black market is easier to enter than to exit, and the money keeps the game appealing. The only drawback is that he can’t quite spend the money to live as lavishly as he’d like, otherwise he’d be caught in an instant. But the addiction stays the course, and he follows behind at the helm, at its beck and call. 

There’s no point in moping about on it. He swirls his Scotch, watching the ice cubes clink against the glass. He can’t help the sentimentality that he feels anyways, but he has to shake himself out of it. He got one deal out of the entire excursion, for now. He’ll have to find a way to slip back onto the island, worm his way into the other islanders' hearts, and make it damn near impossible for Tom to refuse his business. If he gets a hold of this Blathers fellow, that might be his golden ticket. A museum can’t be that hard to find on such a remote island, especially considering it has _wings_ and all. It has to be an extravagant place. His curious side would like to see it as well, just for himself perhaps. He’s not denied a little personal pleasure, surely. 

He sips at the Scotch, his mind humming now. It’s a sure fire scheme, but he has to mull it over for any kinks. He can’t have a hitch in his plan or it will all blow up in his face. Similar to the way tonight went. He has to think this one thoroughly. The resident girl he’d met had been nice enough. He could whip up some sort of romantic tale for her to take his side and assist him. It will have to be believable though, or she won’t fall for it. He’s sure of that. No doubt Tom has already revealed his disgust for him, and logically, she’s more likely to stay loyal to him than take the side of someone she’s only just met. He’ll have to implement a little bit of truth in there, just as bait. He has a striking suspicion that if he sways her, he will sway Tom. 

It’s settled. His melancholy is forgotten at the bottom of his empty glass, and he’s reaching for his graphite. He wants to remember her face. He runs the pencil against paper, and runs his memory against the day, forcing himself not to mull over every second he had been lucky enough to be within six feet of Tom Nook. Closer, even. He hadn’t changed much at all in the face. Round cheekbones and wide, deep set eyes, thick eyelashes and dark irides. A long and rounded nose, prone to scrunch just before a sneeze or when he’s particularly thoughtful or angry. Curvy mouth, full lips. Thick hair, curly as ever. He remembers all of this from before. It’s the rest of his body that gives away time; Redd knows he’s not the same himself, but he can really see the years in the way Tom has softened around the middle, rounder and more plush in comparison to their past. They were both spritely and nimble once, Redd remembers. He can’t count on his fingers the number of times they’d run through the city, feeling like they had nothing but themselves and their dreams of creating _something_. 

At the time, they’d had an apartment that they’d split rent on, and it was no _le chateau_ , but they made do. Tom had a way of making a space a home, he had to give him that. Redd had always found the place run down, and he can recall several times making drunken promises that soon they would be living like kings, but Tom had always shook his head, settling into the old recliner, claiming that it was the only throne he needed. And even though Redd hated to admit it, he began to feel that way too. After the collection of mugs started to take space on the counter and the throw blanket was worn down to lint balls and frayed ends, he saw it. The stacks of vinyl, the VCR tapes, the reruns they promised not to watch all of but ended up losing precious sleep to - he saw it in all of it. Home. 

It just soon became painfully obvious they were dreaming of creating two entirely different worlds - and that those worlds just couldn’t coexist. They went from cooperative nights to hour long fights in a matter of what felt like minutes. Never mind the fact that they’d started this together, a rift started. Redd wanted to make more money, Tom wanted to make honest money. He has to face the music that Tom had lost his trust in him long before he’d done what he’d done. His so called betrayal was just the final straw for Tom. But for those few and fleeting moments he’d been with Tom Nook, he had started to believe that they could be something together. He is sure about two things: one, he is head over heels for Tom Nook, always has been, and probably always will be, and two, Tom Nook does not return the feelings, and never will. But if he can keep their friendly -or less than friendly- rivalry within walking distance, he’ll take it. He’ll just have to figure out how.

“Damn it,” he curses aloud, putting the graphite down. He’s drawn Tom again. The record is still spinning, but the music has stopped. 

He’d meant to draw the girl. What was her name? Josie? Jolene? It was something with a _J,_ but the name escapes him. He’d wanted to sketch her profile, as a condolence gift in regards to the entire fiasco he had unintentionally put her through. He may be a bastard on the Autobahn to hell, but he’s no villain. At least, he tries not to be. He can’t help but feel a little guilt-laden at dragging her into his little lover’s quarrel. He tears the sketch of Tom out, nearly crumpling it, but one last glance and his resolve weakens, and he places it on the small table next to him gingerly instead. It’s no matter. It isn’t as if Tom will ever come and find it. He’ll simply have to start over, and focus this time - which means the Scotch will have to remain untouched. 

He sighs heavily and leans over his book again, training his mind on her face. Wide eyes, lithe frame, thick brows - he closes his eyes and runs through her on the trawler, meandering about the paintings and artifacts. Calculating eyes, she had - bright. Similar to Tom’s bright blues, except she has the color of honey in hers. Subtle cheekbones. He doesn’t quite remember the shape of her mouth, but he remembers her laugh, full and warm. She must do a damn good job in her appointed station. He doesn’t remember the last time he’d felt so easily welcomed. He wishes he’d had more time with her. Perhaps she would have told him more about Tom, had he asked. She seemed fairly close in the small interaction he’d observed between them, or as close as anyone could get. Tom had never really opened up to anyone, outside of the twins he’d taken in. He sure did miss those two. He wonders how they look now; if they’ve grown tall. If they like coffee the way that Tom does. They used to help in the shop - they must be masters at it now. He muses on this, scratching away. 

He’s not sure it looks quite like her, but he’ll make the comparison the next time he sees her. His cheek is throbbing now that the alcohol has worn off, however, and he finds the gentle rocking of the boat rendering him drowsy. Bruised ego or no, he’ll have to dock his home somewhere soon, unless he wants his pillow to be some sharply edged rocks along a foreign coast. He gives the sketch one last look over before deciding he’s satisfied for the moment, making his way onto the deck, letting the stars guide his way. He tries not to think about how even the stars make him long for earlier days, and steers the boat slowly, his heart anchoring in his stomach. He’s sure not even his Scotch will fix that. 


	5. Watchkeeping

When she stomps back down to the beach, Redd is not there. There’s no surprise about it though, now that she seems to have a better handle on the situation. She crosses her arms and curses out loud. 

“I better get that Seurat in the mail tomorrow!” she yells at the sky. Of course, it doesn’t answer back. The stars, now out, twinkle softly at her. She kicks at the sand angrily. 

She should have  _ trusted  _ her gut. Something was odd about him, and she had  _ known _ it from the start. But she’s not necessarily angry about the art. No. She knows without a doubt she had placed her hands on a genuine article - and even if she hadn’t, she hadn’t spent too much on it. But there’s something between him and Mr. Nook that keeps her mind reeling. 

She’s never seen him lose his temper, let alone curse the way he did, loud and  _ publicly _ . Actually, she can’t recall ever hearing him curse at all, and she’s  _ sure _ she’s tried his patience before.  _ Sometimes _ on purpose,  _ most _ of the time by accident. Still, even then, Tom Nook has never raised his voice in the time she’s known him.  _ Never _ . 

Had it shaken her? Sure, a bit. But more than that, it made her curious. And  _ furious _ . She’s confident about one thing: this Redd character did  _ something  _ that Nook found unforgivable. Whatever it was, it must have hurt badly for him to react the way he did. She probably shouldn’t have pushed him on the subject. He might be right about the  _ rash _ thing, now that she’s properly reflecting back on it.

“You alright, love?”

She turns, expecting Ketchup, or Cheri, and she’s ready to immediately explode everything she’s feeling, but it’s Henry, wide-eyed with a cup of tea in hand. His nightshirt is ruffled, so it’s clear he left his home after his preferred bedtime just to look for her. He looks as if he’s debating whether he should have even approached her or not, so she has to be wearing an intimidating expression. She softens her face, smiling and stretching out her hand for his. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you were someone else,” she says quietly. He seems to accept this, offering a small smile back and squeezing her hand. 

“Quite a commotion, wasn’t it?” 

Jonesy snorts at this. “You could say that,” she replies. Henry has always had a very particular way of communicating. But she’s always liked that about him. They get along very well together. Despite his eccentric personality at times, she finds him a soothing sort of person. Even now, he hands her the cup, which she was  _ sure _ was supposed to be for him. She takes it anyways, grateful. 

“How is Mr. Nook?”

Jonesy huffs, and Henry ducks to hide a smile. “He’s as alright as he can be, I guess. How did the festivities go after I left? I’m sure it wasn’t nearly as fun without me around.”

Henry notices her deflection, but doesn’t pursue it, and she silently thanks him for it. She isn’t sure she’s ready to talk to anyone about what has just happened, seeing as she doesn’t even know for herself. There’s no point in gossiping without facts. Henry sits, pulling her down with him. He crosses his legs and sits back, singing softly at the night sky. It’s all fine with her. She’s always been drawn to the life Henry brought to the island. He sings the same few tunes, over and over (particularly  _ Drivin’ _ ) but she doesn’t complain. Especially now, it fills her mind and leaves her at ease.

“Do you remember when I first met you?” she asks suddenly, and he stops mid-measure, giving her a meaningful glance. 

“Yes. I remember thinking you were a complete savage running wild,” he responds smoothly, and she elbows him, a mock-hurt expression on her face. 

“And I thought you were a complete  _ snob _ !” she returns. Henry rolls his eyes. 

“Having  _ elegance  _ and  _ class  _ does not make someone a  _ snob, _ ” he points out, which only makes her snort into the cup. He frowns in concern at this. “If you just sneezed your phlegm into my cup, you can keep it, love. Think of it as a memento from me to you.” 

“I could say the same to you about my  _ phlegm _ ,” Jonesy teases, and Henry shudders, shaking his head. She throws her head back and laughs, and after a while, he relents, shrugging and grinning despite his disgust. He squeezes her hand fondly and they sit in the grass, listening to the stars and the crickets. Jonesy sips at the tea. “This is  _ so _ delicious, thank you. You always give me the best gifts” she says, leaning on his shoulder. “I think I needed this more than I realized.”

Henry grins laying his head against hers. “I figured,” he responds gently. “It  _ is _ good to see you back to your smiling self.” 

It’s silent for a moment more before he continues. “Jonesy, you’ve been one of my favorite people to get to know on this island.”

“Okay, you don’t have to lie for me, Henry, I know pity when I hear it,” she jokes, but when he looks at her, she knows something is up. She sits up, alert, setting the teacup in the grass, clasping his hands. “You know I love _you_ so dearly, right?” 

“I know,” Henry murmurs. He sighs heavily. She can see it in his eyes, a strange sort of sadness. He stares at her for several minutes before looking at speaking again. “I… I’m thinking of leaving.”

“Because of tonight?”

Henry chuckles, shaking his head. “No, although I can see why you’d think that. But it’s something I’ve been meditating on for quite a bit.” He loops his arm in with hers, and she knows he means to comfort her, but she feels as if she wants to puke. Henry was her one calm on the island, and she’s not sure how she feels about him wanting to leave, especially right now. A large part of her wants to tell him to stay, to make him not leave. She knows for a fact that if she begged him to stay, he would, just for her. She knows this because she’d do the same, if the roles were reversed.

“What made you start thinking about all that, then?” she asks instead, despite everything. At the end of the day, it’s his choice. If he wants to leave, she’ll have to accept it, even though it will come with heartbreak. 

Henry doesn’t quite answer her. “You know,” he starts, instead, “when I first met you, I was so nervous. I’d never ventured outside of my town before. Everything in my life had a schedule, was in place as it should be. You were so convincing, though, that I made the move. And I don’t regret it. Living here has been an amazing experience.” 

He nudges his shoulder against hers. “Now, I sort of yearn for another adventure, if you can believe it. The bug has bitten me, and I’ve been stricken with wanderlust.” 

Jonesy grins. “So… I can’t convince you to stay?” she teases, elbowing him. They both laugh, but it dies down quickly. Henry’s eyes are sad, and she can sense he’s torn about the decision. But she knows if he’s made up his mind to go, she can’t be selfish enough to guilt him into staying. She can’t force him to do anything he doesn’t want to do. Henry deserves the world. The least she can do is let him see it for himself. 

“I’m going to miss you,” she settles on. Just the simple truth. 

“Me too,” he replies. They’re quiet again for what feels like hours, sitting side by side. They settle on small talk, although it feels pointless when the time seems so limited now, but Henry promises he will write and send postcards, and Jonesy promises she will attempt at being more graceful. She wants pictures of wherever he goes, but he must be in the photos as well. 

“But of course, love,” Henry assures her, winking. “I must make my mark on the world. I’ll want every bit of evidence that I’ve made myself out to be well-traveled.” 

She holds herself fairly well while he is there, and then cries for a good while when he leaves for the night. Today has gone from bad to, well,  _ worse _ . She squeezes the teacup in her hands, mind racing, the coolness of the grass seeping through her clothes. It is nearly midnight, and she cannot even think about sleeping when there is so much to think over. Not only have things seemingly gone wrong for Mr. Nook, now a dear friend is leaving, and those are two things she does not like, happening at once. She’ll have to put together something for Henry, before he goes. An actual  _ memento _ . Something that the two of them shared. It shouldn’t be too hard. Henry is one for the finer things, but he has a sentimental heart, and the sentiment is prioritized over the prestige. At least for Henry, it does. 

The shop is well past closed. Cheri and Ketchup may be awake, but they hadn’t really interacted with Henry as much as she had, and she’s not sure they’d know exactly how to help her. Besides, if she went now to ask, she knows for a fact they’d ask about what had happened with Tom Nook at the beach, and she does not have an answer, still. And it doesn’t look like she’ll get one from Mr. Nook any time soon. She is pretty sure if she talks to  _ anyone _ right now, they’ll ask the same questions. 

She starts to feel sprinkling over her head. It has been raining a lot on the island lately. She rolls her eyes. The sadness is trickling into irritation, quickly. 

“When it rains, it fucking pours, huh? That’s what they say, isn’t it?” she calls out into the clouds. They only open up more, and there is a heavy rainfall now. She’s drenched. She didn’t bring an umbrella either, although she doesn’t think she is entirely to blame for that. It isn’t as if it was in the forecast. Not that she’d checked. She just assumed from the day long sunshine that it would have been fine. Her mistake. She groans. 

She knows one other person who is immensely sentimental that she could talk to. Someone who, more than likely, is not aware of what has occurred. She makes up her mind to take a little trip to the museum, despite knowing a five minute question is well on its way of being a five hour question. It’s a worthy sacrifice, for Henry. 

“Blathers? You awake in here?”

She peeks her head into the office, where Blathers is nestled into the chair behind a large oak desk. He peers up at her over thin-rimmed glasses, a book wide open on the desk. He was clearly mid-read, but she’s hoping that this will have him give her a quick and simple answer, and then she can go to bed and sleep the rest of this nightmare day away. 

“Jonesy!” Blathers calls, eyes lighting. “You know I’m always awake at this time, my dear.”He bookmarks his page, folding his hands over the book. “I’m the nocturnal sort.” 

“Can I ask you something?”

“Of course! I’m an open book. But wouldn’t you like to get dry first?”

She’d already forgotten about the rain. She shivers on cue, as if Blathers took the spell off of her, and she can feel again. She takes a deep breath, urging herself not to cry. Not here and not now. Crying is useless anyways, and she needs advice, not pity or comfort. Although, Blathers  _ does  _ seem like the type to give an excellent hug. She’s not close enough to ask though, so she doesn’t pursue the thought. 

She nods, sneezing. “That’s a good idea, actually,” she says, grimacing at him in embarrassment. “You don’t happen to have a towel on you in here, do you?” 

Blathers chuckles before getting up from his seat slowly, rummaging through the large polished armoire behind him. While she wraps herself in a large old blanket, trying to acclimate her body to the heat, she drops her question about Henry leaving, and is quite proud of herself for not tearing up at all, outside of having to swallow a large lump that’s been living rent-free in her throat for the past hour or so. Blathers ends up getting quite into it, but it works out in the end, as he gives quite a few suggestions, and she settles on the idea of creating an oil painting of him. Henry would love to show it off where he chooses to build his next home, and she can already see him displaying it proudly. 

Unfortunately, the entire idea of the  _ artistic  _ venue just reminds her of her other dilemma, the one she was trying to forget, and was doing a fairly good job at up until then. She sighs heavily, and Blathers eyes her, the question written on his face. 

“I guess I have to tell you the bad news too, then,” she admits, crossing her arms and slumping in place. The blanket feels heavy. Blathers waits patiently. She sighs again, and fixes her gaze on the electric fireplace. “I  _ thought  _ I’d found a way to get you some artifacts for your art wing, but… we ran into a slight problem.”

“Is that so?” Blathers hums. She can see the disappointment in his eyes and the droop of his mouth. She wants to wither away and rot.

“It’s just - I didn’t realize the vendor was someone Mr. Nook hated so much!” she blurts. It’s apparent; she just  _ cannot  _ keep secrets. But maybe Blathers can. Ironically enough, she trusts that he will. She waves her hands in exasperation, the blanket falling from her arms. “I  _ did  _ get you a beautiful Seurat original - I’m  _ pretty  _ sure anyways - but this  _ Redd  _ guy is a whole scam and half, apparently! At least according to Mr. Nook…” 

“Oh- Redd, hmm?” Blathers says. His eyes widen, as if he’d spoken too soon, and he is surprisingly quiet. She knows instantly that he’s hiding something, from the way he  _ suddenly _ just can’t seem to keep eye contact with her.

“You  _ know  _ something, don’t you?” Jonesy accuses knowingly, pointing at him. Blathers shifts in his seat, attempting to bury his interested face in the book in front of him. He does not reply, but she can see the guilt crawling all over his face. “You  _ do!  _ Spill. We  _ both _ know how you like to talk about things you have knowledge on, so spill the tea, Blathers!”

“Spill the - what?” Blathers squawks. She doesn’t miss how he seems to clutch at his own mug, just near the edge of his desk. “I beg your pardon?” 

She plops down on the seat opposite of the desk, throwing her legs over the arm and crossing them. She folds her arms, staring him down. “I  _ mean _ , tell me the truth,”

“It’s not my truth to tell,” Blathers replies, taking a sip of his tea. He cocks a brow at her. “And I’m not entirely sure it’s your truth to know, young lady.” 

Jonesy feels herself color at this, but it doesn’t deter her. “Well,  _ someone  _ is going to have to tell me,” she pushes, despite Blathers’ small reprimand. “And I am pretty sure I’m not gonna get it from Mr. Nook.” 

Blathers exhales softly, surrendering. “To be frank with you, my dear, I really don’t know what all went down between them,” he murmurs, faraway in thought. He sinks into his chair, his eyes wistful. “I only know that they were close, once.  _ Inseparable _ , even. You might even dare say that...”

He pauses. The rain is pattering outside steadily, and the hearth crackles lowly beside them. Jonesy waits for a moment for him to continue. When he doesn’t, seemingly lost in thought, she leans forward from her chair and puts a hand on his arm. 

“Say  _ what _ ?” she presses. She can feel the thick fibers of his sweater under her fingers. “Please. I  _ need  _ to know. I don’t like seeing the bossman upset. But Redd seemed like a really sweet guy, and I - it just doesn’t make sense.  _ C’mon _ , Blathers. Help a girl out here.”

He looks at her again, finally. “I’ve already had a rough night,” she continues, grinning softly. He slowly cracks a small smile. “I’m a damsel in  _ distress _ . I need some assistance.” 

  
“Well, I… it’s just that it was only speculation on my part, really,” he begins, and she scoots the chair closer in immediate interest. “But I would dare say that they were… well, for lack of a better word…  _ soulmates _ .” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Henry left my island. YES, I'm still upset about it :(. But he asked twice already and I couldn't stand to say no again.


	6. Announcement (to be deleted)

Story will be postponed until Friday. My cat passed this week, and I started a summer camp for kids, so I am a bit behind! Thank you for understanding.


	7. Captain and First Mate

He hasn’t seen her in two days now. The dread is settling in. She probably wants nothing to do with him. He has been by her house several times, and she has not been home. He has checked the beach, the ocean, the gardens, the library, and the cafe, and there has been no sign of her. The Able sisters have not seen her, and neither have the twins - and that investigation on its own was a difficult one.

“You didn’t fire her or tell her to go away, did you, Uncle Tom? We like her!”

“... like her!” 

Tom had shook his head, and the look of relief in his boys’ eyes was close to heartbreaking. Having the side eyes from the other islanders was hard enough. Seeing his own family look at him as if he’d mutated into some sort of monster was more than he could bear, especially considering their rift was already pretty wide. The notion that they were  _ certain _ he’d gotten rid of their Resident Representative - and apparently, someone they enjoyed having around immensely - painted a very vivid image of the impression he’d given everyone that night. 

He groans, rubbing his temples. He cannot stand letting Redd stay in his mind so much, but it comes anyways, and he remembers that night more than he’d like to. His thoughts wander back and forth, between seeing those all too familiar eyes look at him again, and Jonesy’s face when he’d lost his temper with her. He still cannot pinpoint exactly what her emotions were. He knows without a doubt that she was angry, but there seemed to be more. 

He just wants to find her. He just wants to  _ talk  _ to her.

He has some coffee beans he’d ordered from a catalogue that he knows are extremely warm and rich. Jonesy likes coffee - perhaps not as much as he does, but she likes it all the same, and if it’s a rare find, she will especially appreciate it. It’s a small gift, but he’s hoping the token will soften her up whenever he finds her, and then they can patch things up. The past two days have been much lonelier than usual without her around, and without her presence to distract him, he is starting to slip back into daydreams that leave him confused and upset. Fantasies and ideas that he thought he’d buried a long time ago.

When he and Redd had been - it’s hard for him to even  _ think  _ of how they’d been friends, once - there were many times that they’d shared in front of an old generator, warming their hands and trading ideas. He had big dreams, too big for Redd, who would always laugh and tell him to be more  _ realistic _ . But he listened, all the same, and Tom distinctly remembers a time when his hands were so cold that Redd had held them while he talked. He detests it, but his heart still races when he thinks about those nights, freezing but feeling as if he were engulfed in flames all at the same time. 

There were so many times he’d wanted to say something then, so many times he was sure  _ Redd  _ was going to confess something to him. There would be too long of a pause, and Redd would sigh and mutter to himself, and he would brace himself, and then - nothing would follow. Redd would hide behind his vinyl, and he would brood into a glass of whiskey, wondering what should have happened. He still does, sometimes, when he can’t fall asleep - and those nights are often. He catches himself holding his own hand sometimes, remembering more than he wants to. Wishing for things he knows he should not. 

A low chorus of giggling catches his attention, and he shakes himself to attention. It’s the two girls from that night, painting each other’s nails and immersed in some sort of secret conversation, nestled on a picnic blanket. It only reminds him, again, how socially inept he’s become. Redd was always better at the connections part of business. 

There he goes, thinking of him again. It’s been worse than usual, since that night. He grits his teeth and makes his way towards them, coughing awkwardly when he’s near so that they’ll pause whatever conversation they’re engaged in before he can hear it. 

They turn, immediately. Cheri - he remembers her name now - screws the lid back on her polish before setting it down. He can see the glare of the sun in her shades, but her mouth has dropped from its previous smile to a neutral line, and he isn’t sure how to feel about it, and he doesn’t have the slightest clue what it means about how  _ she  _ feels. Ketchup grins and waves at him, but she can’t seem to look him in the eyes, suddenly finding herself occupied with the basket in front of her, fingering the fraying edge. 

“Have either of you ladies seen Jonesy?” 

The girls glance at each other for a brief moment before looking at him. “She said she was going to scout for another islander, now that Henry’s gone and moved out,” Ketchup finally sniffs, when Cheri does not respond. “He was so  _ sweet… _ ” 

“And he gave the most amazing gifts.” Cheri adds, sighing. “The island is so  _ quiet  _ without him now, too. No one sings in the plaza anymore like they used to, since he left.” She looks up at Tom over her sunglasses. “But she set off this morning. I don’t know when she’ll be back, to be honest.”

She purses her lips, and Ketchup is strangely silent. It is a painful type of awkward. Tom knows without a doubt that they know everything that’s gone down the past couple of days. Especially after his public spectacle. Jonesy is friends with all of the islanders, and there is no way she didn’t vent to at least one of them. And that’s all it takes for everyone to know everything about  _ everything.  _

“Want us to pass on a message for her?” 

He swallows. “No,” he replies, quickly. The expression Cheri gives in return is unreadable because of her sunglasses, but he is sure she’s already speculating. He’s seen Jonesy around these two enough to know that they are particularly close, and he can almost  _ feel  _ the resentment towards him. They have a strong, sisterly love; he can see it in the way Cheri seems almost defensive for Jonesy’s honor. Ketchup as well, although her feelings come across in a different way. Either way, he is not in their good graces at the moment. Not that he blames them. In truth, he is glad of it, and wishes he had the same sort of folk in his own pocket. 

There is a long pause. “Well,” he sighs, after he cannot stand it anymore. It is either the heat of the sun or the heat of their silent condemnation, he cannot tell which. “If you do see her anytime soon, just let her know I’m looking for her.” 

Cheri gives him a salute, which for some reason leaves him more uncomfortable than ever. “Will do,” she says, with Ketchup nodding, finding her sandwich again. She doesn’t look up from it. 

He almost immediately hears their voices, low and somber now, as he walks away. He can feel his anxiety trickling down his spine in rivulets. He has half a mind to turn around and speak with them again, just to clear things up, but he is certain that anything he does now will only garner more painful conversations and idle gossip in his absence. He’ll have to leave things as is, for the time being.

He feels his adrenaline crashing just as he re-enters the Resident Service building, where Isabelle attempts to pretend she had not been eagerly awaiting his return by turning in her swiveling chair and typing furiously on her keyboard. Her cheeks are burning though, and he can see a bit of perspiration on her forehead. 

“Hot in here, isn’t it?” he calls from the door, trying to cut the tension. She seems all too eager to oblige, nodding and turning towards him almost as quickly as she had turned away. She adjusts her office fan towards her and tousles her shirt by its collar, panting comedically and grinning. 

“You’re telling me,” she returns. She waves an arm through the air. “A.C. must be broken or something. I’m sweating up a storm in here. Not the best look for a Human Resources Rep.” 

She cocks an eyebrow. He hears the slow swivel of her chair before he sees her eyes on him. She folds her hands atop her desk. “Which, speaking of - not to pry, but - have you seen our Resident Representative anytime recently? I know it’s a bit of a touchy subject, but I’d wanted to gift her a small Lily of the Valley in congratulation for bringing our island’s ratings to five stars. I’m up to my  _ ears  _ in requests to visit!”

Tom feels himself sag without controlling it. The feeling is contagious, because Isabelle instantly droops with him, brows pinched in concern. “I’ll take that as a no, hmm? I  _ am  _ sorry to hear that. I know you’re,” she halts, thinking, “ _ eager  _ to patch things up as soon as possible.” 

He does not respond to this. He doesn’t know how to. He retreats into his side behind the counter, sinking into his chair. There is still coffee left from this morning. For some reason, his stomach can only turn just thinking of drinking it. Perhaps it’s the ungiven bag of beans still in his clenched and sweating hand. He sets it down on his desk, feeling how its papery wrapping has already worn down and wrinkled from his earlier hours-long grip. Just besides it, there is still a stack of files waiting for him to order and respond as needed. It feels more overwhelming than usual. He just cannot find the energy for simple tasks (although that may simply be from him traipsing about the island in its humid heat, with little to no water). 

But sitting at his desk doing nothing is no good either. He fidgets in his seat, shaking himself out of his thoughts yet again. 

“I’ve only just missed her,” he says aloud, to which Isabelle seems to perk up again in interest. “Some of the residents informed me that she’s gone out scouting for a potential new islander, in light of Henry’s move out.” 

“Oh, you know, I had already forgotten,” Isabelle murmurs, sighing sadly. “The poor girl. She did love him. I’d seen them quite often together. I’d say they got along quite well. It did come as a shock to me, that he had wanted to leave. When he’d come to tell me he wanted to schedule a move out I almost called a bluff!” 

Tom knows it is probably not because of him, but his sneaking guilt and self-criticism tell him it is. And that if he keeps it up, he’ll frighten off all the other islanders as well. It is more than likely that Redd will be back around again, as he knows there is potential business now, and he will have to deal with it, like it or not. Salt on his wounds, he supposes. It is a part of business that, deep down, he had always known he would run into and would not be able to avoid forever. Still, he had been hoping it wouldn’t have been like this. Not with Redd. Not after everything they had been through together.

“It was quite a surprise, hm?” he responds, but he is still lost in thought, again. He had assumed that it would be he and Redd against the world, creating a strong and beautiful alliance. Redd had always been a bit more spontaneous and reckless, and they’d had several in depth conversations in agreement that Redd would man interpersonal connections and commerce while Tom would hold the fort, keeping charge of their finances and having the final say in agreements and trades. 

It had worked for a good long while, and they had become a good pair. Outside of business even. There was no complaint from either of them when they found themselves still in each other’s company, hours after they should have gone home. That was when they’d decided to move in together. It was a winning situation for both of them - as they could save money  _ and  _ continue to cook up ideas - and cook, in general. Tom distinctly remembers baking so much more back then. His sweet tooth has not gone away, but his love for creating sweets has dwindled quite a lot. A sad truth. 

“All that sugar is going to make itself at home right about  _ here _ , Snookums,” Redd had teased him, pinching him just on the waist. Tom remembers this was something Redd would do quite often, which had driven him  _ insane _ . He’d never told him to stop though, and he still thinks about Redd’s hands on his hips sometimes, despite it hurting him in different ways now than it had then. 

“I’m sure she’ll find someone to replace him though,” he continues, trying to ignore the fact that sometimes, he thinks of how easily it could have been Redd across from him right now, teasing him with that agonizing crooked smile. If Isabelle had noticed he is not quite in the present, she does not show it, humming in response and offering light-hearted suggestions as to how he could patch things up with Jonesy. 

Had Redd mentioned anything at all to Jonesy? She hadn’t seemed to know very much at all, but she’d seemed so keen on keeping him around. Or perhaps she really just _had_ been eager to give Blathers an art wing. It is the least they could do for the poor fellow. He had always been so dedicated in lending a helping hand, even as far as traveling from the mainland. He really had a passion for the Sciences and Arts, and it wouldn’t do to let his personal feelings get in the way of that. In hindsight, had he just told Jonesy to be cautious and to keep Redd away from coming onto the island, it more than likely would have been the better entrepreneurial choice. 

He hadn’t expected it to  _ hurt  _ so much though. In all honesty, he had thought he would have been over all of this by now. He hadn’t realised he was still nursing the sting of unrequited feelings, and when it had all come to a head, it had felt like sutures being brutally ripped apart, with no thought or care for the wound it was re-opening. The kneejerk response had been humiliating. The more he ruminates on it, the more he regrets it. 

There is no point in dwelling on it, he knows, but he can’t help it. And until he sees Jonesy again and patches things up, he’s sure he won’t be able to stop it. 

It is a good few hours of forcing himself to work and falling into a listless routine of watching the clock and opening a file folder, just to put it back - when he hears her voice, and an outcry from some of the villagers. He wants to look out the window and call for her - bang on the window pane until she turns to him. But he doesn’t knock on the glass, and he watches her embrace Cheri and Ketchup, and he turns back to his deskwork, trying to stop his hands from shaking. He feels Isabelle gaze on him, and he is certain she wants to tell him something. To urge him to go now and catch her while he can. 

“Mr. Nook…” she finally starts, and he’s unsure who is fretting more over this, himself or Isabelle. He’s sure he is causing her blood to rise, the way he’s pacing back and forth by the window, cup in hand. 

“Alright, Isabelle, you’re  _ right _ ,” he surrenders. No point in avoiding the inevitable. It is nowhere near as bad as he is making it seem, anyways. 

“I hadn’t said anything yet…” Isabelle starts, but he’s already out the door, blinking in the sunlight, seeing clouds ahead. He’s wondering if it will ever stop raining so much on this island. He turns the corner, taken aback but not surprised that Jonesy is already far ahead, with whom he supposes is the new islander. He can only see the back of his head, but it is an entirely different character from Henry, that is without question. He can tell by his stance and the way he projects his voice with everything he says. From what he gathers, Jonesy seems almost unsure how she feels about him herself. She’s smiling though, waving about characteristically and no doubt talking the poor man’s ear off, despite her still painfully missing Henry. 

He wishes he had taken the time to be closer to her sooner. He knows loneliness, and he knows losing a friend. At the very least, he could have been there for her in the way she has for him. He feels it again, the guilt of snapping on her so quickly. He  _ should _ have been there for her, instead of being so warped into his own mind. He’s going to amend that. It’s now or never, and he’s not settling with never.

“Jonesy!” 

She turns, mid-conversation. “Hang on, Lucha, I’ll give you the tour in just a minute, I  _ promise _ ,” she explains, and the new resident - Lucha - shrugs and waves her off. Tom suddenly feels very small, watching her swivel on her foot and shade her eyes to get a good look at who had called her name. Even more suddenly, he feels his heart swell, as her face almost instantly lights up, contrary to what he’d feared her reaction would be. She’s barefoot as always, in torn up mudded denim overalls rolled up to her knees, and her fishing pole is swinging dangerously in her hands as she runs towards him, arms waving wildly. 

“Mr. Nook!”

“Jonesy.” 

“ _ I’m sorry. _ ” 

They both blurt it out. Jonesy puts her hands on his shoulders, before he  _ literally _ makes himself pass out from the stress. Somehow, he feels she knows he is feeling lightheaded from their unspoken tension.

“No, boss, seriously,  _ I’m _ sorry,” she continues, shoving at him gently. “I meant to tell you. I shouldn’t have pushed you. I should have realized there was something else going on.” 

“I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

He says it very quietly, but it is the truth. And his voice is wavering, which is not good considering the islanders are nosy, especially Ketchup and Cheri, who have slowed down in their stroll, whispering to each other low whispers. His breath is stuttering, and when he returns the favor of resting his hands on her shoulders, he feels nothing but gratitude when she takes over the conversation, and quickly. He cannot have another fiasco - or Jonesy might be out searching for yet  _ another  _ new islander.

“Yeah, you really fucked up there,” she agrees, shaking him. “But… I know all that anger and hurt wasn’t meant for me. And I’m sorry for not making that clear for you, and for making you worry. I should have told you I wasn’t mad at  _ you _ when I left the way I did.” 

“You weren’t?” 

“No- absolutely  _ not _ ,” she insists. She smiles, winking. “I’m in  _ your _ pocket first, Tom Nook. I know I tease you all the time, but I  _ like _ you, you know?” She stops, backing up a bit just to look him in the eyes. “You’re one of the kindest people I’ve ever known. I  _ knew  _ something was wrong for you to react like that. I’m your  _ friend _ , Tom. I’ve got your back, I promise.” 

She grimaces. “I uh… just kinda got distracted, and forgot to tell you all that. I’m  _ really  _ sorry about that. I mean it.”

He doesn’t respond, and he isn’t sure why he keeps finding himself short circuiting lately. He feels his eyes start to well up, overwhelmed, and for a minute, he starts to lean in, but then stops himself, feeling unsure of what the appropriate thing is to do in this situation. What is  _ professional _ . 

“ _ Christ _ ,” she huffs, rolling her eyes, but pulls him in for a hug. He isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. 

“ _ Thank you _ ,” he’s murmuring softly. 

“Now, get it together, will you? And don’t  _ ever _ put me in a position where I have to say those kiss-ass kinds of things to you ever  _ again _ , it’s  _ disgusting _ ,” she gripes, pushing him away as quickly as she’d pulled him in, and he is relieved to hear himself able to laugh and pull back, eyes still bright but the tears dried before they could fall. “You’re my  _ boss _ . You should  _ seriously _ consider lowering my debt by a grand or so for the extra service.” 

He stuffs his hands in his pockets, and he  _ knows  _ Cheri and Ketchup will be  _ dying  _ for her to tell them what just went down. Somehow, he doesn’t quite mind as much anymore. A weight is lifted, knowing that everything between them seems alright again. 

“I  _ might _ consider that,” is what he says, and when Jonesy only exhales humorously and begins falling into her crass nature again, assuring him that they are  _ not in a whore house, he doesn’t need to pay her for anything _ , he can only nod patiently, falling into the rhythm of her cadence again, letting her voice take over his thoughts. It feels like opening dusty curtains and letting the sunlight right back in, and it feels a bit dramatic, considering it’s only been two days, but it’s the truth of how he feels. 

“To be honest, I…” Jonesy is saying, and he brings himself back to the present, his focus on her again. She laughs, flushing guiltily, tugging at her hair. Her finger is twirling around the loose line of her rod, and he wants to tell her about how dangerous that is,  _ especially  _ with such a sharp hook, but she catches him off guard, explaining, “... I  _ told _ everyone thatI was out looking for a new islander, but that was only  _ part _ of the truth. The  _ other _ part was I was totally gonna try to find that Redd guy so I could give him a black eye for you.” 

“ _ Jonesy _ …” he reprimands, but he cannot say it with conviction. He wants to believe he is shocked at her confession, but finds it’s really quite in her character, now that he thinks of it. She grins, giggling wildly.

“Admit it, I’m the best Resident Rep you’ve ever had on this island!” 

“You’re also the  _ only  _ one I’ve had on this island,” Tom tells her, but he doesn’t deny her claim, either, and he doesn’t think twice when she loops her arm in his, calling to Lucha up ahead to say he’s a lucky winner, having the prized Resident Representative  _ and  _ the island’s esteemed leader showing him around. 

“I got coffee for you, by the way. The  _ ‘fancy’ _ kind,” he mentions, just before he forgets, and it’s the warmest feeling, when she smiles at him in excitement. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience. Here is a bit longer of a chapter in thanks (and to make up for the longer wait!). I’ll get around to responding to earlier comments as well.


	8. Black Waves

That’s so  _ romantic,”  _ Ketchup sighs. She’s sitting, cross-legged, with Jonesy lying her head in her lap. They’re on Jonesy’s bed, pillows towered aside and sheets rustled. Jonesy has opened her bedroom window, but it’s let in more flies and other vermin than it has any wind. The floor fan hums soothingly, shaking its head back and forth, almost as if it is listening. 

“Yeah, I  _ suppose _ . If you like tragedy,” Jonesy replies. Ketchup gives a noncommittal grunt to this, fingers in her hair. She was supposedly attempting to practice braiding when she’d asked her to lay down, but Jonesy is beginning to suspect that Ketchup just wanted to touch her hair. Not that she’s complaining. She does like the attention, and a good head massage feels lovely, especially from Ketchup. She has some sort of magic in her fingers: Jonesy is  _ sure  _ her hair is tangled beyond repair, and she hasn’t felt a tug too painful yet. 

“Are you kidding me? The tragedy is the  _ best  _ part!” Ketchup argues. “Everyone loves a good mutual pining story. The  _ angst _ of it all…” 

“But I’d rather it just all be upfront, you know?” Jonesy responds. She’s thinking about it all, and she sort of gets it - the romance of the pining. The mystical  _ what if _ . But it leaves everything so complicated it frustrates her, sort of similar to how she feels right now, about this entire situation. She angles her head to look at Ketchup, who scowls at her. “Wouldn’t you rather just skip the complication and just…  _ be honest _ ? You get the happy ending faster.”

“Stop moving your head, Jonesy!” Ketchup argues, waving her hands in exasperation. Unfortunately, her hands pull Jonesy’s hair with them, and they’re both screaming, Jonesy in shock and mild pain, and Ketchup in apology. Jonesy rubs her sore scalp, sitting up. 

“Good things are worth waiting for sometimes,” Ketchup replies, after it seems the commotion has died down between them. She straightens out the blanket underneath them, patting it down. There’s a small breeze, finally, and Jonesy wipes the sweat off of her forehead, rolling her eyes. She can’t help but grin, though, at how convicted Ketchup seems of what she’s saying. She knew that Cheri and Ketchup had the same sort of mind in certain cases, but it’s clearer now more than before: Ketchup is truly the hopeless romantic kind. Even now, she’s still sighing to herself, no doubt concocting all sorts of scenarios that are nothing short of dramatic. “Can you imagine what it will  _ feel  _ like when they finally say  _ I love you  _ to each other?”

“Or if they just have an encore of the other night, this time with an addendum of broken bones? Yeah, I can imagine,” Jonesy returns, trying and failing miserably to not sound too condescending. Ketchup rolls her eyes and throws a pillow at her. 

“Don’t ruin my moment!” she fusses, pouting. 

“Hey- if I knew that’s how it would go, I’d be all for it!” Jonesy defends. She holds her hands up in surrender, before sagging her shoulders and sighing. “I just  _ know  _ that that’s really how it’s gonna go.”

She scoots closer. Ketchup is already shaking her head, as if she’s sharing a conspiratorial train of thought. Jonesy knows she isn’t the cynical type either, though - she had just seen it all first hand. Ketchup had as well, which is leaving her wondering why the other girl is even supposing there could be any happy ending to all of this. She doesn’t know how she would get them to even  _ talk  _ to one another. 

“On top of that,” she adds out loud, to which Ketchup leans forward, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands, “we don’t  _ actually  _ know if they ever were anything! That was just Blathers talking, and you know how he is.”

“I  _ do _ ,” Ketchup agrees, simply. “And I  _ know  _ that he’s super smart about a lot of things. That’s why I’m pretty sure he was onto something.”

She shifts and pulls at Jonesy, dragging her closer by her arms. “Now turn around and let me finish! You can’t go around with a half-done hairdo with _ my  _ name on the line!” 

Jonesy complies, despite her patience wearing thin. It’s hot, and she wants to swim. But while Ketchup hums away, content with finishing combing her fingers through Jonesy’s hair, Jonesy runs over everything Ketchup has just said. Regardless of what conclusion she comes to, if Blathers is correct or not, there is  _ one  _ thing she knows for sure: they have to fix this. She and Mr. Nook might have made up their small disagreement, but that’s only made it all the more obvious to her how much the entire Redd Alert (she and Ketchup have decided that is what they’re calling it) situation has affected him. Mr. Nook always gave her the impression that he was sad and old and lonely - which is why she had always made it her mission to pester him as often as possible - but it’s become more pitifully obvious than ever. 

Ketchup pats her on the back, and she sits up, still lost in thought.

“All done! Check it out,” Ketchup is crowing. She pushes at her, urging her towards the mirror. “Go,  _ go  _ \- take a look.”

Jonesy hops off of the bed, making her way to the dresser as ordered. She doesn’t know if Redd is even going to ever come back to the island, after that, and she doesn’t know how she’ll approach him if he does. Now that the initial anger is worn down, and she’s thinking about everything that’s been said and done since, and everything is muddled and complicated. And she  _ hates  _ complicated. She touches her hair in the mirror, grinning softly. 

“It looks nice!” she exclaims, and she catches Ketchup’s shy grin in the corner of the mirror. She blushes and fiddles with the hem of her shirt. 

“Well… it’s still a bit lopsided…” she’s murmuring, and Jonesy jumps back onto the bed, swinging her arms around her. She’s going to have to figure this out, but for now, she is with someone she likes spending time with, and she’s  _ not  _ going to ruin it by spending the entire time thinking about someone else’s problems. 

“Come on, let’s find Cheri,” she says, and pulls at Ketchup’s hand. “I want to go swimming; it’s way too hot today!” 

“She’s probably with Kody, you know,” Ketchup insinuates, waggling her eyebrows. Jonsey rolls her eyes and grins. It’s definitely true; Cheri has been nonstop asking after Kody and striking up a conversation with him whenever she got a chance. Now  _ there  _ was a romance she saw promise in. At least Cheri went after what she wanted and gave it all a chance. 

And she didn’t have to worry about any of it. 

“So let’s invite him to swim with us,” Jonesy decides. “We have to practice for this band thing we want to do anyways, right? I’m sure Cheri would love to hear  _ his  _ opinion.” 

Ketchup agrees full heartedly, leaping off the bed and already out the bedroom door. She’s calling for Jonesy to hurry up, and Jonesy quickly snatches up the airplane bottle from her dresser, taking a small sip before pocketing it and rushing out the door after her. She can hear Ketchup on the phone, no doubt already informing Cheri of their plans. 

The kitchen table is a mess. She needs to find her sunglasses. There’s bills and various letters all over the place, and she slides papers back and forth until her eyes finally land on them. She slides them onto her face, patting herself down before leaving the house. The keys are in her back pocket, her phone in her hand, and her whiskey is in tow. Everything is accounted for. She picks up her drumsticks by the door, debating and then deciding to carry them along, just in case. 

“Jonesy! Freya is with them, is that okay?” Ketchup is shouting, just outside the house. Jonesy slides her door shut behind her. She’s already nodding, sidling up next to her, lacing their fingers together. 

“As long as she brought her own drinks, I’m fine with it! I’m not sharing.” 

Ketchup giggles and nudges their shoulders together before passing along the message. They stroll, hand in hand, getting distracted in the fruit orchard on the way. The oranges are juicer than usual, and it’s welcome in the heat. Ketchup pulls out a small pocket knife from her bag, and they end up resting under a tree for a good while, sharing slices of pears until they’re full, and the sun is not so high. 

They find Cheri and the others perched on the reclining lounge chairs of the neighborhood beach. Freya, characteristically, is holding a cup of what is most likely alcohol of some kind, clearly under its influence. She’s waving her hands reliving some wild story, with Cheri clasping her hands over her mouth and Kody throwing his head back in laughter. Whatever it is, they had only just missed it, and join them at the seats. Jonesy bumps her hip against Freya, scooting her over so she can sit next to her. 

“You telling the tattoo parlor story again?” Jonesy asks, slipping out her bottle and unscrewing the lid. Freya shakes her head and clinks her cup against the mouth of Jonesy’s bottle before they take a drink together. Freya swipes at her mouth, leaning back against the recliner, an arm draped over the side. 

“No - although I  _ could _ ,” she replies, smiling cheekily. She gestures towards Cheri, who’s holding her sides in laughter. “Cheri told me about your ladies wanting to start a girl group, and it reminded me of the time I snuck backstage for my favorite band and-”

“Don’t! Don’t! I can’t hear it again,” Cheri wheezes, waving her hands desperately. Ketchup and Jonesy share a look when she leans against Kody’s shoulder, holding onto his arm for dear life. Kody seems to be coming down from his own hysterics, trying to steady Cheri on the recliner that they are sharing. 

“To spare you the details, don’t overdose on Tequila,” Freya says simply, taking another drink despite what she had just said. “You will  _ always  _ regret it.” 

“ _ That _ depends on what kind of a person you are,” Jonesy teases, winking at her. “I’ve never regret a single thing I’ve done while wasted.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry, welcoming our community leader’s apparent ex lover was  _ not _ a regret?” Freya questions, eyebrows raised. Jonesy slaps art her arm playfully, eyes wide in mock hurt. 

“You wound me. And  _ please _ tell me that’s not already all around the island?” 

Freya’s mouth drops open in disbelief. “You’re kidding me, dear, you really think that hot gossip wouldn’t already have circulated by now?” she asks. Cheri and Kody look away, shamefaced. Jonesy covers her mouth. 

“That’s horrible! Poor Mr. Nook.”

She means it when she says it, she really does, but something about it is underlyingly funny all at the same time. She squeezes Ketchup’s hand, trying desperately hard not to laugh, but a small snicker slips out anyways. 

“God, he has to  _ hate _ that!” she continues, and she’s still in shock, but she’s giggling despite herself. She groans, burying her face in her hands and pushing her hair back. “What am I supposed to  _ do _ ?”

Freya gives a sympathetic shrug. “Make a scene that’s bigger than that,” she suggests. Jonesy rolls her eyes. As if she could possibly think of any bigger news than a lover’s quarrel. It doesn’t matter now, if it’s true or not, the entire island is under that impression now. She wonders if Mr. Nook has any idea. Knowing him, he probably does not. She’s starting to think there may actually be some perks to his hermit lifestyle. Imagine knowing that an entire group of people are in your business? 

“We could… put on a performance here?” Ketchup adds. She reaches for Freya’s drink, taking a small sip gratefully. “We  _ did  _ want to come together to practice. Now we have a reason to!” 

“Cheri was telling me you girls had some ideas,” Kody chimes in, suddenly intrigued. Jonesy doesn’t miss how his eyes don’t leave Cheri. He fidgets in his seat. “I’d love to hear them.” 

“I bet you would,” Ketchup mutters under her breath, and she and Jonesy have to hold themselves together. Jonesy pulls out her drumsticks, tapping against the wood of the recliner. 

“Well, this music is not gonna make itself!” she chirps. She points to Freya and Kody. “You’re our audience, except with more benefits, like being able to tell us we suck if something’s off.” 

“As long as I get to throw panties at the drummer, I’m good,” Freya replies, making herself comfortable on the recliner opposite of them. Jonesy grins and winks at her, whistling. Ketchup chokes and her mouth drops, as if surprised by Freya’s audacity. At this point, Jonesy feels as if nothing Freya does or says will surprise her. She’s known her long enough to know her boundaries pretty far. 

“Alright, give me a beat, Jones,” Cheri says, holding her water flask as if it were a microphone. 

When they’re tired from rehearsing (and Jonesy gets hot enough to jump into the ocean), Cheri makes a run to grab drinks from the juice bar, taking everyone’s order before she goes. Jonesy let’s herself float against the waves, feeling them slap against her skin. The wind is starting to pick up, but the air is as hot as ever, so the water is welcomed. Ketchup and Freya sit where the beach hugs the shore, their legs and feet being gently splashed with the tide. She closes her eyes, letting the sun hit her and her mind wander off. The sound of the ocean rushes around her, and she hums contentedly. 

“Jonesy?”

She flounders around, opening her eyes and doggy paddling to Kody, who’s treading water right next to her. He moves closer, glancing back at the beach before turning to her again, something clearly on his mind. 

“We’re bros, right?” he asks. Jonesy nods. 

“Well, duh,” she responds, leaning forward to shove at him. “We gotta hang out more. You have to leave the gym more often though for that to happen.” 

“You know my gains are important to me!” 

Jonesy scoffs. “Yeah,  _ okay _ ,” she teases. Kody grins sheepishly, glancing off to the side for a moment. 

“Seriously though, can you help me out with something? I feel like you’ll be cool about it.” 

She’s starting to feel like that’s the general vibe the entire island has for her. Not that she’s complaining. She dips underwater to cool her head and pops up again, watching Kody’s face. 

“It’s about Cheri, isn’t it?” she says more than asks, smiling. Kody flushes, and he can’t meet her eyes right away. He stammers for a minute, and she catches him looking back again, almost as if he is panicking. 

“Don’t worry, I won’t say anything,” Jonesy continues, grabbing his shoulder. “I just noticed, that’s all. You know she’s super into you too, right? You should invite her to spend time with you.” 

She gives him a knowing look. “She loves any kind of brunch, and she likes to go for jogs. I’m sure you can make those things work to create a pretty good first date.” 

Kody lets out a huge breath. “Fuck-  _ seriously _ ?” he asks, clearly relieved. There is an unbeatable smile spreading across his face. “I mean, I sort of had the impression, but I didn’t know if maybe I was just making it up because I wanted it to be true…” 

A larger wave smacks at them, and catches them off guard. It knocks off Kody’s sunglasses, and Jonesy gets a mouthful of saltwater. When she comes up for air, they’re both coughing and spluttering. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Jonesy snorts, still trying to expel all the water in her nose and ears. She cocks her head towards the beach. “Besides, I think your girl is headed back right now.” 

Kody whips around, surprisingly fast for someone in water, and Jonesy is starting to think that maybe Ketchup  _ isn’t  _ so crazy about the true love thing. Kody certainly seems to be infected with it, already calling for Cheri and making his way to the shore, legs smashing against the waves as he splashes towards her. Jonesy takes her time wading back, but she can tell from the way everyone is reacting that Kody’s proposal for a first date went really well, and she sighs in relief. 

“Well, there’s  _ one  _ question answered,” she comments to Ketchup, while squeezing her hair out. She sits herself next to her, shaking her head and splashing her. Ketchup squeals and pushes at her, laughing uncontrollably. 

“Jonesy the water is  _ so  _ cold!” she gripes, trying to frown. It doesn’t last long. She breaks down eventually, grabbing their drinks from the tray Cheri is holding. 

They sit in silence for a moment, just enjoying their drinks and the ocean beside them. The sun is just behind the clouds now, showing off its pinked and purpled shadows. Kody and Cheri are lost in their own conversation, and Freya strikes up small talk with Jonesy and Ketchup before heading home, her sandals flip-flopping in the sand as she walks toward the neighborhood. Ketchup wraps a towel around herself, despite being the driest out of all of them. 

“Walk me home, Kody?” 

He’s pink cheeked, but he doesn’t decline the offer, standing with Cheri when she asks. He hesitates for her hand, unsure of how to approach her, and she snorts, reaching out and clasping his fingers before he pulls away out of intimidation. Jonesy can see it on his face, a calm sort of happiness. It reminds her of when she crawls into bed after a long day, relaxed and contented. 

“See you ladies tomorrow!” Cheri yells over her shoulder, and then it is just the two of them again. Jonesy digs her toe in the sand, languidly making shapes. Ketchup sighs and leans her head on her shoulder. 

“Was that enough romance for you, then?” Jonesy teases. “You happy now?” 

“I can never have enough of a good romance,” Ketchup argues back, pouting. “Besides, there was no flair! He just asked her out and she said yes so  _ casually _ !”

“What did you expect?”

“I don’t know,” Ketchup replies. She’s looking down at the shapes, poking her own toe into some of them, making pictures. She draws a triangle over Jonesy’s square. “A heart fluttering, breath racing kind of thing, I guess. Isn’t that always the best kind? When you’re just… blown away by them? Your true love?” 

“Huh,” Jonesy remarks. “You know, I’d always thought I’d like it the other way around. You know, that when you find someone, you feel at home around them. A nice kind of safe and calm kind of thing, if you get my drift.” 

Ketchup doesn’t respond. “You always know you're safe with them,” Jonesy continues. “Like a family, but you get to pick them.” 

“Isn’t that just like having friends?” Ketchup asks. 

“Why not? Shouldn’t your true love be your best friend anyways? Someone you have the most fun with?” 

“Maybe,” Ketchup murmurs. Jonesy can see her eyes fog over in thought. She wants to pry and ask if it’s something else bothering her, but she doesn’t want to make her talk about anything she doesn’t want to. And besides, Ketchup has always been a hopeless romantic. It could just be she’s never thought of it that way before. 

Maybe, if Mr. Nook and Redd ever  _ were  _ in love, they just hadn’t been able to accurately identify it either. It’s a thought. Maybe they were just as lost about it as she and Ketchup are, with their own polarized ideas of it. 

“Maybe it can be both?” she offers, after thinking on it long enough. “Maybe your heart can race because you’re just so happy you’re with the person you like the most.” 

Ketchup smiles. “I really like that, actually,” she replies softly. She sips at her drink until it is gone, and then stands slowly, stretching. She puts a hand up over her eyes. “It’s getting late. I’m really ready to watch a horror romance.” 

“There is  _ no  _ such thing.” 

Ketchup winks. “There  _ is _ , if you try hard enough,” she jokes. Jonesy rolls her eyes, but dusts herself off from sand and other particles from the ocean water. She can still feel the way it had lapped up against her legs as she walks home, only stopping to say goodbye to Ketchup as they pass her house. 

She’s still thinking about their conversation when she’s back on her secret beach a few weeks later, trying to craft a mini bar just to save the walk. She’s mid installing a fridge behind it, mulling over everything again, wondering if there was something she could have done. Something she  _ should _ have done. That, or perhaps Ketchup is rubbing off on her, and  _ she’s  _ turning into a hopeless romantic. Not that that’s a particularly bad thing. It just might not be altogether accurate. 

It also didn’t erase the fact that somehow, Redd had hurt Tom Nook. Lovers or not, they must have been close, for it to matter so much. And it must have been something pretty bad for Mr. Nook to be so defensive and unnerved about it. Whatever it was though, Redd had seemed unbothered by it, and that was the part that worried her the most. She’d  _ meant _ it when she’d said Tom Nook was a friend in her eyes. She didn’t want to be trying to rile up old feelings for the sake of a maybe love story. 

And almost as if on cue, the wind begins to pick up, and the smell of smoke catches her, and she glances upwards, face setting when her eyes land on the familiar trawler. 

“Alright, we’re settling this shit.  _ Now _ ,” she manifests aloud, putting down the cords she’d been fiddling with just a minute ago. She makes her way towards the small indent of land where the small boat had last been anchored, where she can see that he has already been settled for quite a bit of time. She clenched her fist. 

Depending on how he answers, she might  _ not _ hit him. Emphasis on the  _ might.  _

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Watch out, Redd. The Resident Rep is on the move.


	9. Fish Out of Water

Her sketch had turned into a painting. He hadn’t planned on it, but here he is, scraping strokes across the canvas, humming softly to himself. Maybe to the painting too, he doesn’t know. He thinks she’ll appreciate the time he’s taking to use gouache. It’s a new medium, and it’s taking him longer to figure out the right amount to apply, but he loves the texture of it. He wasn’t sure who’d started it, but his last tour around through the mainland showed him that it’s the latest craze in the art world. 

Possibly she’s heard of it too, and will be in enough of a tizzy about it that he’ll be able to win her back over. Just enough to be able to get his foot on the island, enough to hitch his business here as well as everywhere else. 

And maybe just enough, still, that he can get a good look at Tom again. Even if it’s from a distance. Just a foot in, that’s all he’s asking for. He doesn’t think that’s too much, even considering everything between them. 

It’s white wine in his glass today, because he just feels the need for a bit of class. He’s opened the windows just a crack to let a little light in and set an ambiance. When he’s finished, he plans to find the girl, and strike up a conversation. Will she wind her arm back? He wonders. Will she take a swing and slap her palm across his cheek, and give him a piece of her mind? 

She doesn’t seem to be the dramatic sort. Nevertheless, he’ll need to be prepared to disarm her immediately, just to give himself a fighting chance at befriending her again. The painting should aid him in this. If he opens up with gifting her with it, she will perhaps, thank him first, and whatever thoughts had initially crossed her mind will be disbanded by her need to admire his work. Hence the gouache. 

He is engrossed enough by the idea that he does not hear the flap of his burlap door sway to the side. He’s had a policy to never have his back turned on a visitor or customer, but he’d been lost in his own world for a moment, and has a close call with his wine glass when he hears her voice pierce through the trawler.

“You wanna tell me _exactly_ how you know Tom Nook, Redd?” 

Redd nearly jumps out of his skin when he hears the voice behind him, catching him off guard. Mid-painting too, which means that his first instinct is to cover up the art with an old potato sack and whip around to defend himself, for both the art he was just creating _and_ the investigative question. The paintbrush clatters against his glass of water. 

Just like that, she’d spoken. No greeting, no friendly gesture. As he should have known, and as he _did_ know. 

“Ah- cousin! We meet again,” he greets, already putting the salesman drip in his voice. He wipes down his painted fingers and makes his way towards Jonesy, who strangely is still standing at the opening of the small boat, crossing her arms and scowling uncharacteristically. It was to be expected, he supposed, given their situation. 

“Don’t you _cousin_ me unless you’ve got the answers I’m looking for,” Jonesy returns coolly, popping her gum. She lets the door flap fall shut behind her, and while he has at least a good five inches on her, he backs away just a bit as she steps forward. She’s determined, and he’s intimidated. Just a bit. His hand falls, nonetheless.

“Of course! No secrets from family! But come in first, have a seat,” Redd insists, pulling out an old wooden chair. Jonesy hesitates for a moment, before rolling her eyes and settling into it. She’s still watching him with a hawk’s aggression, and he makes himself scarce by turning to his cabinets and taking out the coffee grinds. He pours them into a filter, filling his kettle with water to boil. 

“I also have several new rare art pieces I’m sure you’d _love_ to get your hands on…”

“I don’t want _art_ ,” Jonesy interrupts, unamused. She kicks out the other chair next to her and flips it towards her. “ _Sit_.” 

“But the coffee…” 

“Redd, I don’t give a _shit_ about the coffee.” Jonesy chews at her gum, staring up at him pointedly. “Start talking, and _fast_.”

It’s clear he is not going to manipulate his way out of this. He sighs and plops down on the seat she pulled out for him, leaning back and trying his best to play it casual. If she doesn’t know the _whole_ truth, he should still be able to play this off fine. He doubts Tom told her anything at all, and probably never will. All the better. He can at least tell the story at his own liberty. 

“Alright, you want to know how I know good old Nookie, huh?” he asks, grinning. Jonesy’s gum pops again, and she doesn’t respond. The silence blankets them for a minute or so before he finally continues. 

“Back in the day, when he and I were about your age - younger, full of ideas, energy, you know the like - we had run into each other at a little entrepreneurial event on the mainland. Neither of us had heard of the other before, but it had felt like an instant connection.” 

Recalling the moment aloud unsettles him more than he’d thought it would. Jonesy is still trained on him, her posture not relaxing. Her arms are still crossed. 

“So what happened to your connection? It was a bad dial up?” she asks, pushing for him to go on. Her mouth twists in sarcasm. “Who cut the cord, Redd? I need answers.” 

“Okay, _okay_ , hold on now, I’m getting there,” Redd responds, hurriedly. He leans back in his chair, closing his eyes. Going back without wanting to. Thinking on what they had been. Wondering what _exactly_ they had been. “Let me finish.” 

Jonesy blows a breath that he simply feels is hot. Her fists are clenched, which tells him that she had planned to do much more than a slap on the wrist when she’d approached him. He tries to assuage the tension between them, smiling and offering a low chuckle. 

“There was quite a bit before we had a little hold up. Tom and I had a similar goal, you see, to make it big in the business, but we had different motivations for it, and different ideas on how to get there.”

_Strongly_ different opinions, he recalls. He can still remember their very first argument as if it was yesterday. It had gotten very heated in the moment, and Redd had been sure then that they would have gone separate ways. But they hadn’t. He feels the boat rocking underneath them from an incoming wave. Jonesy waves a hand, beckoning him again. 

“So, we began to go different ways, in a sense,” Redd admits. This much is true. The more they’d begun to disagree, the harder it became for them to work alongside one another. “Not for lack of trying. We’d still collaborate and attempt some sort of compromise that could keep us both satisfied.”

He sighs. Lies or no, this is always his least favorite to remember. “Tom was disappointed in me for trying to work the system in our favor. In my humble opinion, if you can’t beat them, join them, you know? I just wanted to help us get to the top, as quickly and as easily as possible, so we could both pursue our dream. But Tom… Tom has this rosy colored concept of business. He seems to be under the impression that everything will turn out in his favor eventually, and played by the book, no matter how I tried to get him to understand that sometimes, you had to play the field.”

“I mean, he _did_ manage to create this entire getaway, _and_ his own company,” Jonesy interjects. She crosses her arms, again, and Redd can _feel_ her admonition in the way she stares after him. “He seemed to manage his own way just fine.” 

This had been his first thought, when he’d arrived. Somehow, Tom has done exactly what he’d set out to do, in just the way he’d wanted to accomplish it. Unless he’d given in to some of Redd’s suggested ways and simply not acknowledged or admitted it to another soul. Somehow, he knows this is not the case. 

“But this still doesn’t tell me what happened,” Jonesy continues, leaning forward. Now she seems more curious than infuriated, he notices, as she has let down her guard and is open in the way she carries herself now, resting her arms on her knees in wait. “So you had a bit of a disagreement. I understand that. But it seems the two of you had been fairly close. Surely he wouldn’t be so upset with you for a bad business venture that it would terminate your…”

He doesn’t miss the way she hesitates. 

“... partnership.”

He can hear the beating of his heart in his ears, pummeling him in a guilty fear. Not that it mattered much, what she may suspect. Wherever her thoughts may go, they remain thoughts. As do his. His thoughts did not change their course of fate. He doubts hers will fare much differently. It does cause his blood pressure to rise though, knowing how close she is to knowing. He wonders if Tom really had known all along, and simply hadn’t addressed it because he has been disgusted by it, and had been too polite to want to start a row over it. _Surely_ he’d known, if a basic stranger had figured it out.

“You’re right, we were fairly close,” he agrees, and chooses not to elaborate. The less she knows the better. The less he _remembers_ , the better. Seeing Tom again has just reopened every fresh fear, desire, wound - any and every emotion he has felt before, but all at once. He clears his throat, and stirs his brush in the water, and hopes she does not notice the way his eyes have fogged up. 

“The arguments became worse. I felt that Tom didn’t respect me, as his friend, but _especially_ so as his business partner. It was insult and injury each time we had a go at it. Tom began to make inquiries without me, and invest in ventures before running the proposal by me beforehand. He knew I knew, of course, but it had come to a point that we had almost silently agreed to simply keep our business separate. This only negatively translated into our personal relationship.”

He has to look her in the eyes if he wants to sell this. So he does, as he knows he should. It’s also a good interpersonal skill, to meet the eyes of the person you’re speaking with. He’s realizing too, that he’d colored her eyes wrong, probably from his faulty memory, and wonders if he should scrap the painting entirely before presenting it to her. 

“I did something... _rash_. Out of anger.”

He sees her swallow, and he wonders what he’d said that has caught her in some sort of web, but it’s no matter. He can spin the rest of the take now, easily. He folds his hands together, continuing. 

“Tom and I had a safe, see, where we kept savings for investments. One of our arguments had been where to put it, and what to invest it into. One night, we had a particularly bad disagreement. I remember it being the angriest I’d ever seen Tom Nook.”

He flushes, sheepish. “Save for the night at your beach. I truly am sorry for that, by the way. My behavior was…. not my best, to put it lightly.” 

“So I saw,” Jonesy replies, out of the spell for only a moment. She’s settled into the chair though, and she doesn’t seem to be wanting to have a go at him anytime soon. “It’s the alcohol. It makes us all a little stupid, huh?” 

“You’re telling _me,_ ” Redd sighs aloud. It may not be the entire truth, but it’s still hard to tell. It’s never been something he is proud of, despite how he might play it off. “So, after our argument, while he was asleep, I took the money. If Tom wanted to see _rash_ , I was going to show him rash. I took the money and I ran, and I blew it on everything I’d ever wanted to do that he hadn’t let me.”

He chuckles darkly. “Tom called me numerous times afterwards, of course, but I never picked up my phone. Eventually I got tired of him calling and I tossed it. I keep burners on me now. But I hadn’t looked back. We came close to running into each other again a few times, but managed to narrowly avoid it each time.” 

He leans back, resting his head on his hands. “And there you have it, little lady,” he finishes quickly, and he watches her face drop in disbelief. “I betrayed the confidence of a business partner and probably friend. But the world of financial security and finery calls me, you know.” 

Jonesy laughs, loud and nervous. “That _can’t_ be it,” she argues, uncrossing her arms. He shrugs, but she isn’t buying his nonchalant behavior. He wonders if she can hear the way his heart is thundering in his head - if she can hear the intense rushing.

“It is what it is. I am quite the scoundrel,” he replies. “I _do_ feel bad about it, sometimes.”

“No,” Jonesy interrupts, and it isn’t the slightest bit quiet, the way she says it. Quite the opposite, in fact. He isn’t sure if it is a rogue wave or her voice that caused the boat to suddenly quake beneath them. She points a finger at him accusingly.

“You may have known Tom Nook before me, and maybe you know him better than me, but I know this: Tom Nook is the most gentle and caring creature I’ve ever met in my whole life. I’ve never heard him raise his voice, not _once_. Not at _anyone_. So I wanna know, _cousin_ ,” and Jonesy is standing up over him now, a hand on the table, “what exactly did you do to him that made him not only yell at you, but _cuss_ you out in front of the _entire fucking_ _island_?!” 

“I said before, we were business partners. I told you the story. I scammed him. I outwitted him and I _stole his money._ ” 

Jonesy scoffs at this, revealing one of his sketchbooks, and he feels the blood drain from his face. He doesn’t know when she had gotten her hands on it, and he doesn’t know how. In any other circumstance, he would have been proud of her for slipping it under him, almost as if she were his protege. But it is not the case and all he knows is that she is holding it before him, her fingers laced in between the pages. His heart leaps to his throat as she lets it fall open, just so he knows that _she_ knows. 

“So you just create thousands of sketches and paintings of _all_ your business partners, _cousin_?” 

Redd flushes hotly. “I _hate_ that you’re using that against me,” he growls. Jonesy grins, still holding the sketchbook at an arm’s length away from him. He jumps for it, and she backs away, hand on the door. 

“Doesn’t answer my question, Redd,” she replies softly. 

“Don’t make me say it, Jonesy,” he pleads, and he realizes that it is the first time he’s genuinely said her name. 

“Well, you don’t really have a choice,” she states dryly, “Because I refuse to play telephone with you two. I need to get the bottom of this _now_ , or Mr. Nook’s word is final.” 

“You wouldn’t boot me off the island.”

“I might.” 

This isn’t going the way he’d planned at all. Jonesy looks absolutely disappointed in him, which he finds strange, because they’ve only just met. He wonders who had ever put in her head that he should have been held to a high standard to begin with. It has to have been her naivety and positive nature. He suspects it’s why Tom seemed to like her so much.

He’d made her eyes blue. That’s what he’d gotten wrong. 

“I don’t care what you say,” Jonesy murmurs. She closes the sketchbook, handing it to him gently. “I _know_ you’re a good guy, Redd. I felt it when we first met, and I’ve only felt it more the more I’ve learned about you. So… what happened? Tell me the truth.”

Redd sighs, relenting. “Can I at least make some coffee first?” he asks, meekly, the salesman demeanor gone. There is no point in pretending, not with her. Somehow, he knows he will regret it. “I’ll need something to look at while I humiliate myself in front of you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, the next chapter will actually reveal everything, instead of just giving cliffhangers all the damn time.


	10. X Marks the Spot

“Tom? Tom Nook? Did I get that right?” 

His eyes light up, nodding his head enthusiastically. “Yes, yes, you’ve got it! Tom Nook, that’s me,” he rambles, and Redd finds it somewhat endearing that he has no shame in his clearly babbling tongue. He may have also had a bit too much to drink, which only goes all the more to show how naive he is. It’s clear he’s never been to a soiree like this before. It’s almost frightening. Redd reaches forward a bit, lowering the cup in Tom Nook’s hand. 

“You regularly have brown like this, Snookums?” he teases. 

Tom Nook glances down at his drink, and then back up again, eyes wide. “I…I…” he stammers, shocked. “I didn’t realize. It’s only a Daiquiri.” 

Redd has to bite his lip not to laugh. “Daiquiri’s have  _ Rum _ in them. You know that, right?” he asks, brow cocked. Tom Nook covers his mouth, catching a small hiccuping giggle behind his teeth. Redd has never seen such a wide and genuine smile, he’s sure of it. Not in this world. He grins back, but he can’t let it be full. Not yet. 

“I suppose I’d better put this down then, before I make any more a fool of myself than I already have.” 

His hand is still over Tom Nook’s. He slips the drink out of his hand, raising a mock toast. “No need to waste, hmm? I’ll finish it off.” 

Tom Nook just nods, and he downs the sickly sweet drink. In retrospect, he would have believed there was no alcohol as well, had he not known already. There’s a hint of pineapple and a copious amount of whipped cream. More than he’d like, if he’s honest. He’s more of a scotch on the rocks sort of guy. Tom Nook stares after him, as if he’d secretly been dying to finish the drink instead. 

“Let’s get you one with less… surprise, shall we?” he suggests, and Tom Nook’s face lights up again, a hand on his arm, clutching gingerly at his sleeve. 

“Yes! I’d like something a bit sweet, if you don’t mind,” he slurs, stumbling against him as they weave through the crowd. Redd chuckles, despite himself, and steadies Tom Nook just enough so that he doesn’t end up flat on his face. 

“Oh, I can do  _ sweet _ , Snookums,” he implies in jest, winking. It doesn’t land, however, because Tom Nook merely smiles wide in pure excitement. It’s clear he thinks Redd was referring to a drink. He shakes his head at the innocence beside him. It’s a curious thing, then, that he’s here, mingling with moguls from all over the mainland, all of whom he knows have less than kind intentions. Or at least, he’s sure  _ most  _ of them are malicious in some sense. 

“Better yet,” he amends, with this in mind, patting Tom Nook’s shaking hands a bit. “Why don’t we get you a nice glass of cold water first? You’re looking a bit lost.” 

Tom Nook doesn’t respond, for  _ lost _ indeed is the right word. He’s transfixed on the chandelier above them and the columns around them, cooing at the intricate detail and splendor of the place. Redd has never known someone to be quite so transfixed by an old building, but walking alongside Tom Nook, he feels as if he’s seen the place for the very first time, even though he’d been here on quite a few occasions. It’s a damn good thing he’d scooped this fellow up when he did. He would be eaten alive by some around here. 

Which is why he finds himself still with him, this enchanting stranger, at the bar with two glasses of water, instead of out making his rounds (and avoiding certain ones). There were quite a few projects he’d started and made promises to meet certain quotas for, and had fallen short. He owed quite a lot of people money, that was for sure. People who would not be happy to see him spending what they saw as  _ their  _ due on buying someone drinks. 

In his humble opinion, he can’t be blamed. Tom Nook has lovely eyes, the kinds people sing about. He’d know. He’s crooned in bars before for some extra cash. He knows all the classics. He blames them for his cursed romantic affliction. 

“Has anyone ever told you have angel eyes?” 

Tom Nook coughs mid-drink, the straw falling from his mouth. He grasps at a napkin, and Redd reaches over and thumps his back until he can breathe again. 

“I.. um, no, not really, but they’ve never said anything particularly bad about them either,” he replies, finally, after clearing his throat. Redd doesn’t miss the way he can’t meet his eyes just now, cheeks a dusky pink. He gets the impression that Tom Nook doesn’t do very well with compliments, or that he just hasn’t had very much practice. “Thank you, though. That’s very kind of you.” 

“Kind,  _ Scmind _ , I call it like I see it, Nookie,” he says, elbowing him. “I’m not doing you any favors.” 

He flags the bartender down, ordering himself another round of scotch. The chair under him swivels smoothly as he turns back to Tom Nook, who is occupied with his own drink again. The guy really loves sugar. He smirks to himself. 

“So what brings you out here anyways? You don’t seem like the big city type.” 

Tom Nook slides his drink aside, eyes catching the light from above them. If he had a sketchbook right now, he would whip it out immediately, taking in the entire moment for memory. It’s the dazzling lights and the drink placement, of course - it almost fits into the Fibonacci sequence - but it’s also this Tom Nook’s eyes. They’re a deep blue on their own, but Redd keeps finding himself falling into them and wanting to commit to them, as they catch light wherever they turn. 

“I’m not,” Tom Nook explains, and Redd would normally drowse away and wait for a phrase that hints at dollar signs and revenue, but he’s just so enchanted by his company that he cannot even  _ pretend _ to be aloof about it all. “My friends at home didn’t want me to venture out here either. But - and I know it sounds a bit silly- I have something I’d like to create, and I needed to be here to get it done.” 

Redd’s ears are perked, and he isn’t sure if it’s the drinks, the ambiance, Tom Nook, or just his idea being so damned spectacular, but he truly doesn’t care. He lets Tom Nook sober up, continually flagging down water for him while he explains, in great detail, on how he’d like to create an attainable paradise for those who need it most. Tom Nook, he discovers, struggles in his own way, his mind dark and merciless to him at times, and he only wants to bring himself and others like him the peace they crave and deserve. It’s an enterprise of the heart, and he wants to tell him it’s folly, to pursue it. But somehow, he cannot bring himself to break his heart on it. 

“You could come too, if you wanted.” 

Redd feels himself blush, which is a rare occurrence on its own. “Who, me? I could never be tied down, Snookums,” he jests, despite the loud and intruding pounding against his eardrums. If he doesn’t check himself, he’ll be swept away much too quickly by this fellow’s wild ideas. He doesn’t need another hard lesson on why it simply doesn’t work that way. But perhaps he can save this Tom Nook from having to learn the same lessons he had. He wouldn’t mind being a mentor of sorts. 

He leans back in his chair, swirling his drink. “Then again, I wouldn’t mind helping you out. I’ve been around the business block, so to say. I could give you some pointers.”

Tom Nook grins, and Redd realizes that his eyes really are just that bright, alcohol or no. Like an ocean, or sapphires, there’s an inescapable array of colors, a kaleidoscope of blue. He downs his drink before he says anything stupid out loud and mortifies himself - and possibly threatens his credibility in the realm of entrepreneurship. He’s already done enough, and he’s lucky Tom Nook is new enough to the field that he hasn’t heard of his reputation quite yet. 

“Would you really? I could use some help, actually,” Tom Nook admits, looking away bashfully. “You’ve already been kind enough to help me now. I wouldn’t want to impose anything, though.” 

Redd claps him on the back. He feels a bit bad, considering that Tom Nook has no idea that he’s probably just shook hands with a devil, but he doesn’t plan on anything malicious, despite his normal routine. Something about Tom Nook makes it hard for him to imagine he would - although if worse comes to worst, he will do anything necessary to save himself. He’s just hoping it won’t come to that, and it shouldn’t, if things go according to his plans. That should be fairly easy, as he suspects Tom Nook will be leaning quite heavily on him for any advice and guidance. His fears are for nothing, more than likely. 

“Well, now that you put it  _ that  _ way, I suppose I don’t mind being imposed on,” he decides aloud, and Tom Nook is already shaking his hand, sharing details immediately on how he plans to bring his ideas to fruition. Unless he has a lot of money, Tom Nook is going to need to raise some revenue or invest a lot, and quickly. He can handle that. He knows how to weasel his way into partnerships and wallets. While Tom Nook relays everything to him, he plans internally on how to support it, and himself. Tom Nook wanting to begin an entirely new community is the perfect avenue for him to set up shop and sell his trinkets and art, and Tom Nook is nothing less than thrilled to hear about it. 

“I’m just so glad to hear I have something I can offer you in return,” is what he says, and Redd has to bite his tongue and find a sudden interest in his lapel to not respond that Tom Nook’s simple company is more than enough. It’s been quite a while since he’s had someone look at him as if they believed in him, and while it may just be Tom Nook’s naivety and abundant optimism, it still pangs at him in the pit of his stomach. 

They exchange numbers just before parting ways, and Redd finds himself eager to send a message almost as soon as Tom Nook is out of his sight. He has quite a few patrons he needs to avoid, however, and so pockets his phone instead, and slips through drunken groups and meets with only counterparts he knows he can trust. Most of them, of course, being less inside the building, and more so around the back, under the pretense of a smoke break. Not that it’s too much of a pretense. It is a habit he’s tried to cut and just given up on. He has just enough funds to pacify anyone who is particularly at odds with him due to what he owes them, and leaves feeling more than a bit successful. 

He’s humming on the way home when his phone buzzes against his chest, and he’s already wincing in preparation of a threatening phone call or dubious message, but is relieved - and overjoyed - to see that it is a simple text from Tom Nook: 

_ It was so good to meet you, truly. I felt so overwhelmed until you caught me. Thank you. I can’t wait to work with you soon!  _

He taps something back,  _ the pleasure was all mine _ , and the like, but his fingertips are buzzing, and it takes everything in him to not bombard Tom Nook with a slew of messages. He cannot deny that he is ecstatic, however, for this chance at starting over. Tom Nook is akin to a light at the dock; he is a way out from his current predicaments that he’d fallen into. Not that he wants to completely depend on anyone - let alone someone so new - but it is a doorway. 

And Tom Nook made his heart beat so  _ fast _ . Redd has always believed in love at first sight, but the feeling itself is indescribable, he thinks. No books nor songs could prepare a heart for the reality of it all. He’s  _ pretty  _ sure it’s what he feels, anyways. It’s perhaps a bit naive of  _ himself _ to be thinking in such a manner, but when he had first locked eyes with Tom Nook, it was undeniable. He wanted to know him, to be around him -  _ God _ , he wanted to just hold his hand. He’d tried very hard to find the mystical love thing, since he was young he’d been obsessed with the idea, but he hadn’t had to try with Tom Nook. 

Or perhaps he’s a bit whiskey-addled. That is yet another habit he hasn’t managed to curb just yet. Along with money laundering. 

Romantic whims or not, however, there is a business proposition in the wings, and he finally garners the courage to text back, ignoring the thrumming in his ribs. 

The first time they meet again, his knee is trembling against the underside of the table. Tom Nook is shaking too, but he’s sure it’s for entirely different reasons than why he is. He’s brought his documents and files in a flashy suitcase that he specifically remembers lifting from a men’s boutique west town, and Tom Nook has some papers paperclipped into a file folder that he’d pulled out of a small knapsack. It’s charming, but it won’t do, and he is sure to tell him that first thing. 

“Sable made this for me,” Tom Nook says, and his bright blues waver. “She worked really hard on it.” 

“And that’s  _ so  _ charming, Snookums, I mean it,” Redd dismisses. “But you can’t use it as a business piece! I’ll arrange a nice carrier for you, huh? On the house. Call it a little welcome gift, seeing as how we’re partners and all.” 

When Tom Nook immediately falls into thanks and blushing (and stammering, of course), Redd decides it’s just who he is, even with no alcohol involved. Which only worsens his dilemma, as he suspected it would. It’s barely turned ten in the morning, and he already feels the need for a drink. Tom Nook is explaining the logistics of what he’s looking for, and they settle into making set plans. He has to hold his tongue when Tom compares investing to gambling, and try not to laugh when he details the outrageous timing within which he wants to complete this new community. But there are small things here and there that he sees potential in, and somehow Tom already knows a substantial amount of people who he could finalize partnerships with. 

Two weeks in, and he’s met them - whether through phone or in person. The most interesting character, so far, seems to be a certain gentleman who has a deep passion for the arts and sciences, and who talks a bit too much, but seems just as eager as Tom does. He has a debilitating fear of insects, however, and it poses the question as to just how well he’s going to do in this venture, considering there will be insects in every imaginable place. But they all have one consistent flaw - they’re all much too eager and much too naive. All from the country. Talented, without a doubt, and with a lot of potential. But they have the same simplistic ideas about business that Tom seems to have, save for one. 

“Sable told me not to come here,” Tom admits to him. They’re sitting on Tom’s couch, and Redd had had to take off his shoes at Tom’s insistence. Tom is a coffee drinker, he’s come to find out, although he likes a lot of sugar in it, and Redd finds it fairly consistent. He’s also noticed that Tom talks about Sable quite often, which means they were more than a little close, and something about that bothers him. He has no room to be possessive, but he can hardly help it. He’s been that way with everyone and everything he’s ever become close to. So far, only his seedy business has stuck around. “She’d said nothing good ever comes from the city.” 

Redd scoots a bit closer, picking up the contract in Tom’s hands. If their knees bump, he doesn’t mention it. But he can feel his heart thumping loudly, shouting into his throat, daring him to say something. That’s what you’re supposed to do when you want something - you go for it. But for once, he’s afraid. He hums at Tom’s little story, pretending he doesn’t wish he’d met Tom in his hometown, and ignoring the fantasy of them intertwining fingers in very tall sunflowers. He doesn’t even know if Tom’s home  _ had  _ sunflowers, but he envisions all countrysides with sunflowers.

“Well, she’s not too far off,” Redd supplies, although what he wants to say is that Tom should just forget about her. “But I’d like to argue there are a couple good things about this busy city life.” 

“Well, yes, I told her,” Tom replies simply, sipping at his coffee. “I told her I met you.” 

Redd chokes on his coffee, and Tom has to thump his back quite a few times before he can breathe again.

If Redd had thought it was hard before, to not want to be around Tom, he definitely finds it difficult now, every time they meet up to work. He swallows the quiver in his throat when he first suggests to Tom that they share a flat together only a month later, just to save on money, and he replays the memory of Tom embracing him so tightly he felt as if he could breathe for the first time in a long time. He can hardly sleep that night, as suddenly his mind races without his permission. He feels jittery, and he blames it on the coffee. He’s never really cared for it, but the smell of it reminds him of Tom, and he likes that part. It’s comforting. 

He gets up and starts a pot, just to sit next to it and inhale deeply and sigh.

Tom clearly does not feel the same, or he is just naive, because every small advance Redd makes is met with a disappointing response. Any flowers he leaves cause Tom to reminisce about his hometown, any soft candlelight music played have him babbling about the latest music trends he is into. Redd’s compliments are taken somewhat into account, and sometimes he is given compliments as well, but Tom Nook compliments everyone, and Redd finds himself sure that Tom does not mean it any special way when they’re directed towards him. Still, he thinks about what it would be like if they  _ did _ .

“Redd, are you listening to me?” Tom asks, and he looks worried. Perplexed. It’s three months now, and they are both stressed, and things have not gone according to plan. Tom is chewing on his bottom lip, clearly frustrated, and Redd is imagining what it would be like if he kissed him. If only kisses were magical, and really did ease every trouble. 

But they don’t, and they do not have money, and Tom does not want to strike any bargains that he feels are unfair. It does not matter how much Redd argues that the people they’re cheating are cheaters themselves, Tom is sticking to some Golden Rule in his mind, and it is costing them. There are times he is so frustrated at Tom he feels as if he will lose his mind. The part of him that he is not proud of grows in anger and impatience, and his hunger and greed for money claw at him. But he cannot disappoint Tom. He does not want to. As easy as it would be to crawl back into the proverbial gutter of business, dealing in his own way, if Tom does not want it, neither does he. Even if he does. 

“Tom, it’s just not going to make sense to turn down anymore offers. We have to give Mr. Swallows an answer, and  _ soon _ . And there are a lot of benefits in this contract. Look…” 

“I  _ read _ the contract, Redd,” Tom exhales, exasperated. “I  _ knew  _ you weren’t listening. I don’t like the demands. It would require too much of my customers. I want this to be attainable.” 

“Nookie, you’re asking big business to just supply you with a loan large enough to support randomers to a new, unknown place? Just like that? You don’t even have a credit line. Banks will hardly offer loans at all to someone with no credit history, let alone  _ big  _ loans.” 

Tom glances up at him, perplexed. “But I’d pay them back,” he argues. His coffee cup trembles in his hand. His brows are wrinkled, and he’s chewing on his bottom lip in agitation. “How do I even  _ start  _ a credit line if they won’t let me in to begin with?” 

Redd sighs. He takes Tom’s hands in his, and he wants to believe that Tom’s smile is from his touch, but he is not sure, and he is afraid to ask. Damn him and his soft heart and foolish fancies in love. He swallows the grimace and pretends he doesn’t hear his money-laundering habits screaming at the base of his skull. 

“Alright… why don’t I see if I can pull some strings? I’ll be frank with you, my credit is not the best - it could use a spit shine or two - but I’ve got a few connections.” 

He doesn’t mention who the connections are, and he decides it doesn’t matter. Tom’s face is everything he needs. When they embrace, he holds on just as long as he can, without making anything too obvious. Heavens forbid. Tom seems anxious enough as it is, and the last thing he wants to do is add to it. Besides, he doesn’t know how  _ he  _ would take it if he was rejected. That would certainly sour their partnership and leave things rather awkward.

It doesn’t take long though, until things sour on their own. Redd finds himself more and more frustrated, not only with the business propositions, but also in the way Tom seems to not respond to his advances. If he would just outright say  _ no _ , there would be a difference. But there is nothing instead. Just a void of an answer, where Tom is either completely naive, or just refusing to face the reality because he is afraid of turning him down. Redd is beginning to suspect the latter, because Tom is arguing with him more and more often as time goes by. It is almost as if Tom doubts his credibility and talent altogether, and that stings even more. 

He  _ knows  _ he’s not perfect. But it feels that no matter how much he tries, it doesn’t meet Tom Nook’s shining expectations. 

“Snookums, take a break. There’s nothing better than a little wine and a little Manilow to make you feel at your best again,” Redd suggests, in a desperate attempt to have a foothold somehow. Somewhere. He doesn’t mention the fact that Tom is mulling over a proposition that he hadn’t even been invited along to look at or listen to, and that this wounds him. He’s done nothing to garner mistrust, and yet Tom does not trust him. More than likely, the positive dealings Tom has quickly cultivated have infiltrated him with information that Redd had hoped he would never know. 

“Not now, Redd,” Tom grumbles. His coffee is on the edge of the table, forgotten. He’s highlighting the sheets in hand, scribbling through some lines and adding notes on others. “I’ve got to read through this before tomorrow.” 

“Yeah, I noticed you got a contract there. You didn’t tell me you’d been about to see anyone today.” 

He hopes the way he’s said it insinuates enough. Tom drops the contract onto the table with a loud  _ slap  _ and rubs at his face with his hands. There are tired shadows in his face, and if Redd didn’t know better, he’d have been  _ sure  _ Tom was going to raise his voice at him. But Tom has never been a violent man, and Redd would have had his quips and barbs ready, if needed. Not that he’s ever dreamed of cursing at Tom. The thought alone is heartbreaking. 

Tom is drumming his fingers against the table nervously. It is an odd contrary against the soft music in the background. “I know,” Tom admits, quietly. Redd is astonished - and a bit hurt, too - by the lack of guilt in his voice. “I wanted to do this one on my own.” 

“But we’re  _ partners _ , Tom.” 

The desperation has never been so obvious. Redd can feel Tom slipping away, and he doesn’t know how to loop him back in. For once, it’s not for a financial upper hand. Unfortunately, his true motive hurts much worse. They lock eyes, and the longest minute passes before Tom finally tears his gaze away. 

“We are,” he replies, but the way he speaks leaves Redd unnerved. “And I  _ like  _ you, Redd. I really do. You’ve done so much for me. You’re everything I’d want in a partner and more.”

Redd has to refocus his train of thought. Tom obviously means  _ business  _ partners. It doesn’t stop him from the quick fantasy of it meaning something different. 

“But I really don’t agree with so much of what you’re saying, and doing. I want to do this... the right way.” 

Redd bristles. “You mean you want to do this  _ your  _ way,” he near spits, he’s just so angry. And  _ hurt _ . And heartbroken. He’s already suspected that he’s not good enough for Tom, but for a moment, he’d thought maybe he could be. But it’s become quite obvious that in Tom’s eyes, he will never be good enough in general, let alone good enough for  _ him _ . “Because it has to be  _ your  _ way, to be the right way, am I understanding you correctly?”

Tom is visibly upset. “That’s not what I’d meant…” he starts, wringing his hands, but it’s too late. 

It is the largest argument they’ve ever had. It is hours of yelling, and cursing, and pleading (the cursing mostly on Redd’s part, the pleading mostly on Tom’s part, the yelling on the both of them). It is slamming fists on tables and waving hands in exasperation, but worst of all, it is everything that Redd had feared all along, and had tried to avoid and  _ failed _ . He had done everything as clean as he’d could this time around, and he’s still fallen short. It’s why he’s never bothered to run a clean business in the first place. 

He’s pacing in the aftermath, his mind and heart racing. Tom has gone to bed, the door shut. He’s sure he is not sleeping. He cannot pinpoint one part of his body that is not throbbing. A thousand things are running through his mind at once, and he doesn’t know if he wants to scream, cry, or put a hole in the wall. He opts out of the last one, as it will just leave a permanent mess in the flat that he’s not too keen on looking at later on. 

“You don’t like how I deal, huh?” he questions aloud, to the closed door. His frustration is at a boiling point. The cap is about to burst. “I’ll show you how I  _ deal _ , Tom Nook.” 

There is a safe, where they both have kept any savings they’ve built up so far. Tom Nook may not trust him, but he can prove himself. He’s done asking Tom for it. He’s going to  _ show him _ . Then things will be right again, and maybe this sick feeling that keeps him up at night will go away. He fusses with the lock, hesitating for a moment, but then he remembers Tom’s final words before they both froze, and things really teetered into a dangerous place:

_ Sable was right about you _ .

Tom never explained what he’d meant by that, retreating to his room instead, horrified. Redd clicks the safe open and begins packing the stacks of bills in his suitcase, invigorated. He will prove both of them wrong. He snaps the suitcase shut, giving one last glance around the flat. Something small is warning him against all of it, but he flicks it away. When he comes back, full of riches and good news, Tom will see. And then maybe, just  _ maybe _ , he will be good enough in his eyes. 

And then maybe he can work some courage up to tell Tom Nook that he’s in love with him.

With this hope in mind, he pushes himself out of the door, taking every penny of their savings with him. 

Tom calls him almost immediately after he’s left the city, bombarding his phone with multiple text messages and calls. Most of them are angry and detail his feelings of betrayal. Redd saves each and everyone, as a motivation. He replays them every night that he is gone, remembering why he has to succeed this time. He doesn't call back though, and somehow, he knows he should, but he doesn’t despite knowing this. He clings to the idea that the element of surprise is the best, and that Tom wouldn’t listen to him anyways. 

Days turn into weeks, which he’d expected. He pockets his phone every time Tom calls, and eventually he turns it off completely. Eventually, Tom stops calling. All of this he’d planned for, and while it stings at him with guilt, he runs business as usual, sure that he will eventually have what he needed. But then weeks turn into months, and deals go sour, and the money and his hope dwindle, and the thought of finally calling Tom and owning up is tempting. He doesn’t though. He can’t bring himself to relay the news that Tom had been right all along. If Tom had been furious and untrusting of him before, he will surely feel this way now. In Redd’s mind, it is easier to just let Tom live with the idea that he had scammed him, and call it a day. It isn’t as if he hadn’t done such a thing before; Tom would surely hear about it from other business partnerships eventually, anyways. His reputation travels far ahead of him. Besides, the extra money in his pocket is nice, for once.

He can’t delete the messages though. Quite the opposite. He still replays them, night after night, and sometimes regrets his decision. But at this point, it is much too late. Nevermind the fact that he was - and still is - head over heels for the country boy whose dreams were too big for the city. There is no turning back now. Tom will more than likely want nothing to do with him, anyways. Redd supposes that this was inevitable. They would have had to part, one way or another. He’d rather it happened this way. Something about being seen as a thief and a liar was better than unrequited - or worse, rejected - love. 

He gives himself three days to cry about it. Three days, and then he’s back to business, although Tom Nook plagues his mind in his dreams and in his art. Sometimes, he still makes coffee, just so he can sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be two updates, to make up for the fact I’ve been gone. Work has been beating my ass in a very non sexy way T.T


	11. Convention on the High Seas

Redd’s eyes are shiny as he sniffles, but he swipes at his nose, and if he had teared up at all, Jonesy wouldn’t have known for sure. She’s  _ pretty  _ sure he’s on the verge of tears though.

“So you just didn’t tell him _anything_? That is - quite _literally_ \- the _dumbest_ sob story I’ve _ever_ heard,” she says, despite this knowledge, crossing her arms. She had hoped that the story was much more satisfying than this. It sounds like a load of bologna to her. “You expect me to believe that? I’m not smart, but I’m not an _idiot_ either.”

Redd chokes mid-sip on his coffee.

“Excuse me? That’s a bit  _ harsh _ , don’t you think?” he defends, and Jonesy swears she can hear a bit of a growl in the base of his throat. She’s wounded his pride, she knows it. She’s finding it hard to care, and also very hard to not smash his face against the table. “I’ve made myself vulnerable and you’re reducing my pain to mockery?  _ Dumb _ ?” 

“It wasn’t  _ necessary _ , Redd! You really just let Tom go all his life thinking that you pulled the rug out from under him and left him destitute out of greed! And for what? Your pride? Admit it - you got embarrassed and instead of just doing the entrepreneur’s walk of shame, you broke his wallet  _ and  _ his heart. It was a completely self-centered dickhead move! I don’t see where I’m being harsh by honest and pointing out how stupid that was.” 

“I was supposed to become rich, Jonesy!  _ Loaded _ ! We were gonna get enough for a nice place, and I was gonna give him all the finest things. He was going to have his dream fulfilled because of  _ me _ ! I was gonna give him the  _ world _ !” 

Jonesy exhales loudly, trying very hard not to lean over and slug him. She’s starting to sympathize with Mr. Nook’s immediate flying of fists.

“ _ Dude _ , Redd, didn’t you ever stop to think that maybe he didn’t want the world? That maybe he just wanted  _ you _ ?” she asks. 

Redd stares at her in a way that reminds her of an open-mouthed Oarfish when she’s caught it on a hook, eyes bulging and all, and it’s clear he’s never thought of it that way before. She huffs loudly and rolls her eyes.

“ _ Men _ ,” she grumbles, rubbing her temples. She has a migraine, she’s  _ sure  _ of it. “I swear they’re the same thick headed pieces of work no matter where or how you find them.”

“He was the love of my life, kid,” Redd interjects, voice soft. Ketchup has read books to her before that described voices sounding heartbroken, and she’d always thought that was kind of funny, but without a doubt, Redd sounds  _ heartbroken _ . Ketchup will laugh when she admits this. “He still is. And I know I’ll never get him back, but the things I’d do if I  _ could _ …” 

His eyes are too bright. Jonesy holds up her hand immediately when she realizes what is about to happen, waving them frantically.

“No! No crying,” she babbles, panicked. “ _ No.  _ If you start crying, I’m getting off the boat. I already had to stop one of you two’s waterworks this . I can’t do another one so soon. I’ve had my quota of tears. I don’t get  _ paid  _ for this...I’ve done my community service already...” 

This doesn’t seem to help. Redd sobs, catching a handkerchief out of his pocket and blowing. Which is nothing short of disgusting. She’s never understood the use of cloth tissues. Just traps all the snot in there and then you have to rub it against your nose again. 

“Did he cry… because of  _ me _ ?” Redd asks, crocodile tears on his cheeks. Jonesy claps a hand over her mouth. She’s made a mistake. She shouldn’t tell Tom Nook’s business to anyone, much less  _ Redd _ . The root of the problem. She groans and rolls her eyes. He really hadn’t selected a very reliable Resident Rep. Although, in her defense, there wasn’t any mention of  _ secret keeper  _ in the fine print. Better to beg for forgiveness than ask for permission, so she’s heard. It’s starting to become her personal policy.

“No, no. You’re not getting anything else out of me,” she replies, holding up a finger. “I’ve said too much already. I’m going.” 

She stomps to the flapping door, turning to make one more point.

“You can do your whole business thing here, that’s fine. So long as just you and I trade. But you’re on thin  _ fucking  _ ice, Redd! You hear me?  _ Thin, fucking, ice _ ! Now I gotta go home and mull over all this bullshit you just dumped on me.” 

Redd seems to sit up straighter, but she stomps off of the trawler before she can hear his response, muttering under her breath. “Fucking  _ dramatic _ . Much fucking ado about fucking  _ nothing _ .” 

She tramps down across the beach, the scorching sun only adding to her heated aptitude. It’s official, at least on one end. Redd definitely harbors - no pun intended - feelings for Mr. Nook. He might be a bit of a crook when it came to money, but he wasn’t as big and bad as he’d cracked himself up to be, and as Mr. Nook sees him now. Which is all Redd’s fault, she knows. The lack of conversation astounds her. She can’t imagine not immediately trying to clear the air, after doing something like that to  _ anyone _ , but  _ especially _ someone she was in  _ love  _ with. 

“Jonesy!”

She turns. Redd is dashing after her, a wrapped canvas in hands. She puts her hands on her hips, trying not to let her mouth twitch in a smile. She had been right about one thing from the start. Redd has a little genuine in him somewhere. She’s just going to have to encourage it out. 

He’s panting when he reaches her, handing the painting in a doubled over stance. “I’ll… say…” he wheezes. “It’s hot… isn’t it?” 

“It’ll rain in a minute, just you wait,” Jonesy replies, but she takes the painting. She leans around it and gives him a look. “Can I open this now, or is this one of those Trojan Horse type gifts?” 

Redd colors, and his face droops. “Jonesy…” he starts, voice shaky. “I know I’m a bit of a scoundrel but this is really for you, I mean it. I’m sorry.” 

“Don’t! It was a joke,  _ I’m  _ sorry,” Jonesy interrupts. “It was too soon, too. We all have our bad habits. Yours is money laundering. Mine is running my mouth.” 

It’s clear Redd is trying to process a myriad of emotions, she can see it in his eyes. She snorts and gives a helpful smile, nudging at him with her foot until he finally seems to understand and laughs in relief. 

“Snookums sure knows how to pick ‘em, huh?” he jokes back, and Jonesy rolls her eyes, but she’s unable to stop the laugh escaping her as well. It’s nice, solving issues one step at a time. Not that the Redd Alert has been really dealt with. 

“Open it, kid,” Redd says, shifting on his feet. He looks nervous, nudging the wrapped canvas. “I worked hard on it. I want to see your face.” 

She raises an eyebrow, but obliges him, tearing at the burlap until it falls against the sand. It’s a good thing today is not windy, or she’d be worried about ruining her beach. 

It’s gouache. She recognizes the texture instantly. Her mouth drops, despite herself. She glances up at Redd, and then back at the painting. She tries to speak, but she’s suddenly forgotten English, and she just points at it instead, looking back up at him. 

“You like it?”

“It’s  _ me _ !” Jonesy finally manages. She sounds so stupid, but the art is stupid  _ good,  _ so she can hardly blame herself. “How did you do that so fast? It looks just like me!” 

“Not fast at all, kid,” Redd supplies, chuckling bashfully. “Why do you think I was gone so long? I had to perfect it, gouache is not my most comfortable medium, you know, and I’d had to draw you from memory…”

She doesn’t quite listen to everything he’s saying. She sets the painting down gingerly and jumps him, squeezing his waist. Redd stops whatever he’d been rambling on about, gasping in surprise. 

“I  _ love  _ it - it’s  _ so  _ good, thank you!” Jonesy exclaims, pulling back. Redd looks positively confused, and she isn’t sure why, until she realizes she’d been quite aversive to him up until this point. She picks up the painting again to look at it. “You made me a  _ lot  _ prettier than I really am though, now that I look at it.” 

“As if I could ever perfect that about you,” Redd implies, waggling his eyebrows. Jonesy laughs full heartedly. “I had to fix your eyes though. I’d made them blue on accident and scraping the stuff off was quite the conundrum.” 

Jonesy covers her mouth in mock surprise. She leers impishly at Redd. “Of  _ course _ , an  _ accident _ ,” she crows, as sarcastically as she can, and Redd flushes instantly. I don’t know  _ where  _ on  _ Earth  _ you got the notion to paint  _ blue  _ eyes,  _ no one  _ I can  _ think  _ of has those around  _ here _ , especially not in our  _ Resident Service _ building…”

“Alright, can it, kid,” Redd growls, but it isn’t threatening, and he’s grinning, despite clearly being embarrassed. He glances back towards his boat. Jonesy catches his eye, peering at him in curiosity. 

“You had art you wanted to sell me? I don’t have bells on me right now.” 

“No, I…” Redd hesitates. He looks down at the sand, and Jonesy is instantly reminded of just the other night, when she and Ketchup were drawing shapes with their toes. That is one of her many memories she locks in as what she’s called  _ warm memories _ , the kinds that leave you fuzzy and tingly. She’s made lots of those on this island.

Redd sighs aloud. “I’m going to be leaving for a bit,” he admits. Jonesy’s face drops. 

“I was  _ just  _ starting to like you!” 

Redd chuckles softly and scratches the back of his neck. “I know,” he murmurs. “But… you were right, back on the boat. Harsh as it was. I hurt my Snookums and that shouldn’t have ever happened. I should have just been honest, and faced the consequences. I’ll be back, I promise. I just… I need time to reflect on myself. If I hang around now I know I’ll only make things worse.” 

She doesn’t know him all that well, but she can’t help a welling feeling of pride for him. Somehow, she knows that even admitting this to her took a great deal of courage on his part. Everything he’d shared with her today has probably been a gutting experience for him. She reaches out and squeezes his hand, just to show her support. 

“Well,” she offers gently. “I’ll be waiting. Blathers would love any genuine pieces you get your hands on. And _I’d_ sure like to see you again.” 

Redd grins. “Blathers still up to his old tricks, hmm?” he asks, and then winks. “And you missing me is to be expected. I’m quite the catch.” 

Jonesy mock gags, which makes him shake out of his self-deprecating reverie completely and laugh, the joy reaching his eyes. She can catch the light in them, the way she caught it in Mr. Nook’s eyes when he gave her the fancy coffee, or in Ketchup’s when she told her about her ideas of true love. That full body joy. 

Redd gives her a small wave as he trudges back to his trawler. She watches him become smaller and smaller, until he disappears into the boat entirely, and then the smoke begins to plummet into the sky, and the boat slowly rocks away. She stands and watches, until she cannot see the boat either, and all that’s left is the twinkling sun, high and bright, and the waves below, tempting her to dive in. She shakes herself out of her thoughts, telling herself it’s about time to go hunting for new sea creatures anyways. 

The painting is in her hand. She looks down at it again. It’s incredibly detailed, for him having seen her only once before. He has an eye, that’s for sure. It’s a shame he’s wasted it on trying to sell faux copies of genuine articles, especially when he could be creating his own originals.  _ That  _ would make bank, she’s sure of it. Maybe next time he comes around, she’ll mention it. She wonders if he ever showed Mr. Nook any of those sketches he’d made of  _ him _ . She has a feeling he hadn’t. She’s not the type to get embarrassed, but if she’d drawn anyone  _ that  _ much, she would feel a bit strange about showing it to them. 

She sets the painting underneath her drink bar, where it should be safe enough from the sun. For now, she wants to dive, and quick. It is hot and she’s sure the creatures beneath the water are relaxing and unaware of her coming. She saddles herself with a small rough sack and wades into the water, welcoming it’s cooling touch. Up ahead, she can see clouds, just as she’d predicted earlier. The island has been pretty temperamental lately. It seems to match up just fine with everything that’s been going on, in her humble opinion.

She ducks into the water. 

She keeps pulling up the same finds she has before, a mollusk here, a scallop there. She donates her scallops in exchange for some new DIYs, but other than this, nothing catches her attention in the water. Nothing that she can give to Blathers, anyways. The vegetation that has been cultivating beneath the surface is enormous, though. The amount of sea grapes that are weighing down her bag is questionable, but she’s been reading about some caviar recipes she can make with them, so she collects them anyways. 

When she cannot keep a hold on her heavy sack - and she can’t fit much else, anyways - she makes her way back to the shore, paddling languidly. The wind is beginning to pick up, but there hasn’t been any rainfall quite yet, and she can see a myriad of colors reflecting through the clouds. The sun is setting; she can tell by the pinks and oranges strewn across the sky. 

Up on the rocks at the shore, she can see Tom Nook, seated with his legs hanging over the edge and leaning back on his hands. His eyes are watching the horizon, and whatever he’s on about has his entire attention, because he doesn’t seem to even notice as she splashes her way back onto land. 

“Boss?” she calls, waving up at him as she nears the rock he’s perched on. 

“Jonesy!” he cries, jumping almost immediately from where he’d been resting, clearly startled. He looks as if he’s been caught red handed - again, no pun intended. She’s starting to think she should be a comedian. “Ah… it’s not what it looks like, see…”

“What’s it  _ supposed  _ to look like?” Jonesy asks curiously, head cocked, eyebrows raised. She hoists herself onto the rock and sits next to him, crossing her legs and leaning back, squinting in the setting sun. She turns her head a bit and gives him a knowing expression. “Because to me it  _ looks _ like you’re waiting for a certain someone who docks his boat and sells possibly dollar-store brand versions of artifacts off the rocks to my private island area.”

Now that she knows, it’s obvious. Why else would Mr. Nook be here? He surely wasn’t waiting on  _ her, _ as he’s never done that before. It’s clear that he knew that he would possibly find Redd here. There’s the possibility that he’d been planning to really knock him out this time, but the way he blushes at her insinuation, she knows this was not his intent. 

They really are two idiots in love. Just the type of romantic escapade Ketchup had thought it was. She is  _ definitely _ going to hold that over her head. 

“I…” Tom Nook’s eyes start watering. Oops. This wasn’t the direction she wanted this to go at all. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Jonesy curses. “I didn’t mean to open all that up like that, I’m sorry, don’t cry, I’m not good at this….”

It’s too late. Whatever she’s just said, she’s broken an entire dam. Mr. Nook buries his face in his knees, and she’s pretty sure  _ someone _ is going to hear. Her damn mouth just couldn’t keep the jokes to itself, and instead, it’s gotten her in trouble. Again. 

“I know it’s  _ foolish _ ,” Tom Nook is sobbing, and she glances back to see Ketchup and Cheri coming with bottles, along with Freya. She waves them back aggressively, but not before seeing their eyes widen as they scurry off. They’re  _ definitely _ going to be coming up with wild hypotheses until they get anything from her. She opens her mouth, groaning silently. 

“Fool me once, fool me twice kind of thing.”

“Right, right,” Jonesy murmurs. She feels like she  _ should _ pat his back or something, but this is beyond her area of expertise. Isabelle was always the more motherly one when it came to things like this. 

That’s it. She texts Ketchup with her epiphany.  _ Please get Isabelle. We’ll talk later, I promise. Drinks in an hour.  _

“It’s been  _ years _ , Jonesy, and I still have this bizarre hope, you know? I don’t like to be at odds with anyone, and Redd and I… well, we were especially close before, once,” he admits, and she knows what the word  _ close  _ means, and she knows that Tom Nook does not know she knows. She just keeps it to herself, though, because she’s fairly certain her mouth has gotten her in enough trouble today, and she really isn’t in the mood to deal with another sudden catastrophe. Somehow, she gets the impression that Redd would not want her to tell Tom Nook what he’d told her. “I really did  _ like  _ him, once. We got along pretty well.” 

She wonders briefly if he really thinks she believes what he’s saying. Tom Nook is a kind and gentle individual, she knows this, but crying over a lost friendship like  _ this _ ? He has to understand that she’d be slightly suspicious that it was something more. But he doesn’t say much else, swiping at his face in a futile attempt to dry his eyes. It doesn’t make a difference, as he continues weeping. 

“Mr. Nook…” she tries, frantically clambering down the rock towards her bag, which she’s had lying on one of the beach chairs. She digs through it, trying to find something to distract him, to calm him down. Whatever he’s been holding in, it’s been in storage for quite a while, and she’s seen someone hyperventilate before. Eunice had, when she’d first moved in. She had been so anxious about the move and being so far from home, and having none of her usual pleasantries that she was used to, and she had cried so hard she couldn’t breathe. Jonesy had had to help her control her breathing just so she wouldn’t faint.

Not that she thinks Mr. Nook will faint. But it’s better to be safe than sorry.

She comes across a cosmic brownie packet that she’d thought of eating as a snack, but she isn’t very hungry now, and she swipes it and pulls herself back up on the rock again, elbowing Tom Nook and holding it out towards him when he looks up at her. 

“It’s a little… ah,  _ smushed _ ,” she admits, cringing. It has also been in the sun for a long time, and probably will not taste as good as it should. But Tom seems to take to it, busying himself with opening the wrapping. 

“I am so sorry,” he manages between bites, seemingly calmed down. He pulls out a pack of tissues to blow his nose, and now  _ that  _ Jonesy agrees with. Throw the whole thing away, when you’ve soiled it. “This is  _ no  _ way to behave around an employee…”

“Knock it off, Mr. Nook, you know I don’t give a  _ shit  _ about being professional,” Jonesy argues, before he can throw himself into another spiral. “If only you knew how many times I showed up at your workbench hungover.” 

Tom Nook’s eyes widen and stares at her, as if he wants to say something but isn’t sure what. She pushes against him.

“Kidding.  _ Maybe _ ,” she teases. “Consider us ‘even’ in the unprofessional department. I won’t report anything to H.R. if you won’t.”

He gives a small snort in response, and they sit there silently for a moment. The sun has almost completely disappeared now, she can start to see the stars. She wonders if she’ll see Celeste tonight. She always has the most pleasant and interesting conversations, without being quite as exhausting to listen to as Blathers. Tom Nook finishes the brownie, stuffing the wrapper in his pocket. 

“Were there sunflowers where you lived, Boss? Like back in your hometown?” she asks, suddenly. He cocks his head at her in question, the most interesting light in his eyes. She knows he’s heard this question before, from someone else, once. 

“What made you think of that?” he replies, curiously. She shrugs. She doesn’t tell him about the sketches. Redd can’t say she ever really  _ told  _ Mr. Nook anything, if he happens to pick this apart on his own.

“No reason,” she settles on, patting his shoulder. “I just think they’re kind of pretty, that’s all. I’d love to see if we could grow them here.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jonesy is not good at being a soothing balm in anyway whatsoever. She’s a hot mess lol.


	12. Hook, Line, and Sinker

Isabelle is up to her ears in application requests for visitation, and she is  _ just  _ starting to feel her eyes cross and her information misconstrue when her phone buzzes in her pocket, and she groans, unsure of if she’s relieved or more stressed. She shuffles in her skirt pocket, digging out her phone.

It’s from a resident. That isn’t all too surprising, as the islanders call and text her quite often, for requests or suggestions to improve the island, or to make arrangements for departure. She winces, hoping it isn’t the latter. They’ve already lost a couple of residents and had replacements come in. It’s starting to not reflect well on them. K.K. has still been making his weekly rounds, however, and there are still piles of requests for visitation and possible residency, so she knows she shouldn’t be too worried. 

It’s from Ketchup. She clicks at her phone to open the message. As she reads, she sighs, partly in relief, and partly in a different anxiety entirely. 

When Mr. Nook had first relayed to her everything, she hadn’t been all too surprised. She’d been working with him for several years now, assisting him in many business prospects, and she’d known about the bad blood between him and Redd for a while. But he’d never really told her everything that had occurred, and when she’d seen his reaction to Jonesy’s familiarity with him, it had startled her. Tom Nook  _ adored  _ Jonesy - she knew this, he’d explained to her several times how she felt like family to him - so it came as a shock when he’d lost his patience with her in the way he had. Him finally revealing the entire truth of their history made the pieces fall into place. 

She jumps up from her chair, barely remembering to shut the door behind her as she scurries down to the Northbound beach for the first time since the incident. Ketchup’s text hadn’t explained much, but she knew that Mr. Nook had left the office, uncharacteristically, and the text detailed that Jonesy needed assistance. She could put two and two together. Hopefully it wasn’t anything dire; she knew that Jonesy and Mr. Nook had buried their tiny hatchet and the issue between them had been resolved rather quickly. 

It is still all in all, dramatic, as she sees Mr. Nook doubled over, and Jonesy with a hand on his back, looking as if she’s awkwardly patting it. She coughs, and when Jonesy turns, her eyes are wide as the moon that’s just starting to show its face. She immediately trots towards her, and Mr. Nook reaches for her and catches her eye. Isabelle can see what looks to be a brownie packet in his hand. 

“Isabelle!” Jonesy calls, although not loudly. Isabelle will give her credit where it is due; as often as she is vivacious and the life of the island, she seems to be aware of when it is necessary for her to have a more soothing effect. Even the way she makes her way over is softer, bare feet padding against the grass in an almost completely silent mode. Mr. Nook is not moving, contrary to Jonesy - he is sedentary, turning back towards the ocean. 

Jonesy does not have to explain anything. She already knows. 

“He wasn’t here, hm?” Isabelle asks, and Jonesy’s mouth drops in surprise, but then it turns into a relieved smile, and she rubs her cheeks. 

“Oh, thank  _ god _ , you already know, I am  _ so  _ bad at keeping secrets, but he had an entire  _ meltdown  _ and I didn’t know what to do!” she gasps. She nudges at Isabelle, silently requesting her assistance. “You’re better at the whole  _ comforting _ thing - I don’t know what to do or say to make the boss feel any better.”

Isabelle smiles, but she feels a wistful pang. She pats Jonesy on the shoulder. 

“You can’t really make him feel better,” she explains. “But you  _ can  _ sit with him and just let him ride it out, so he’s not alone in it, and I think you did just fine in that. But I’ll take over from here. You go on home and get some rest. I know you’ve been overworking yourself for the past few days.” 

Jonesy cocks her head, a genuine grin finally creeping out across her face. “You’re the best, Izzy,” she replies, fully embracing her. When she pulls back, Isabelle realizes that for the first time, she sees exhaustion in Jonesy’s face, and wonders how much the girl has actually  _ slept  _ these last three days. It seemed as if she hadn’t even gotten a wink; which would explain her burnout energy just now. She supposes at least now they know just how long Jonesy’s battery lasts. About three days. She jokingly thinks to herself she’ll bring it up at a more appropriate time. Jonesy will appreciate it. 

“Seriously, I owe you a drink.” 

Isabelle snorts. “I’ve heard you make mouth-watering margaritas, so I’m holding you to that,” she mock-threatens, and Jonesy stifles a laugh before hugging her once more, before starting to retreat to her house. She pauses midway, running back to the rocks and giving Mr. Nook a huge squeeze, and then zooming by Isabelle, waving a  _ goodbye _ . 

“Don’t be a wet blanket all night, Mr. Nook!” she calls out, almost as if her energy was replenished suddenly. Isabelle hopes for her sake that she does go home and sleep.

When Jonesy’s figure disappears, Isabelle makes her way to the rocks next to where Mr. Nook is still sitting, clearly calmer but showing sniffling signs of an earlier episode. She groans softly as she adjusts to sit on the flat top boulder.

“A skirt really isn’t the best to sit down in,” she jokes, just to lighten the mood. Mr. Nook gives her a small grin, and she pats his back comfortingly. “So you didn’t see him, did you?”

The barely noticeable shake of his head gives her the answer she’s looking for. “Well,” she sighs out, after a beat. She adjusts her skirt again, smoothing it down with her hands. She wants to continue, but she knows that there isn’t quite much to say on the matter. If Redd is not around, he is not around, and there is nothing they can do about it. She also is unsure of how Mr. Nook feels about the situation all around. It seems as if he  _ had  _ wanted to see him again, so perhaps it is a good sign. 

According to Mr. Nook’s story, though, perhaps not. If Redd is anything now as he had been before, it would be better if they didn’t interact altogether. Jonesy better take a good long nap. She’ll be needing to gather intel from her later. The last thing she needs is to have to do damage control again. 

“What do you need me to do?” she asks.

“There isn’t much you can do,” Mr. Nook responds, softly. He sighs, his shoulders sagging. “Just… stay with me for a moment?” 

Of course she does. It isn’t a demanding request. 

She had found Mr. Nook and Redd’s most recent encounter to be rather tame, compared to the last time they’d run into each other. She’d managed to have the both of them agree that they could run business professionally, and simply not interact personally. At first, they’d complied, but it hadn’t taken long before she found Redd sidling up to their office and badgering Tom Nook. They’d have a row every single time, and Mr. Nook would end up chasing him out with some sort of physical object. It hadn’t helped that the twins seemed to take to Redd quickly and easily, and found him one of their favorite topics to discuss at home. She remembers specifically when Mr. Nook would come in and complain to her about it.

Well,  _ complain  _ is not the right word. Mr. Nook was downright heartbroken about it. Redd played with the twins whenever he saw them, and Mr. Nook was always so busy that he did not have as much time to do everything he wanted to. For eight year olds, the choice seemed simple: Uncle Redd was more fun than Uncle Tom. This particularly stung Mr. Nook, as not only did he not want the twins near Redd in the first place, they called after him as if he were family, and he had to hear it. Now that she truly understands what Mr. Nook’s feelings were for Redd, she realizes just how much it hurts. She knows that when Mr. Nook finally chased Redd away from them for good, the twins had harbored a grudge against him for it, and there had been a rift. They don’t visit him as often as they used to, and were more than eager to run the shop on their own. Things have seemed to patch up, but she hadn’t really worked up the courage to ask Mr. Nook about it.

“You should probably head home,” is what she says instead, the twins in mind. “Timmy and Tommy will be wondering where you are if you’re not home when they close up shop.” 

She wants to ask what his intention was, with him sitting on the rock. But she knows he may not tell her. There is no productive end if she pursues this. Besides, she’s pretty sure she has a healthy idea of what it was. 

Tom takes to this, patting her hand gratefully. “Thank you,” he murmurs. His eyes are still damp, but he wipes at them and manages a small smile. She digs out a tissue pack from her pocket, and without thinking, presses it against his cheeks, blotting away the tear streaks. She doesn’t think much of it until he clears his throat, flushing and wringing his hands. 

“You shouldn’t have to take care of me,” he grumbles, and although he’s not unpleasant about it, it’s clear he’s embarrassed. “That isn’t your job.” 

“Why not?” she replies, in a bit of a reprimand, but gently. “You take care of everyone else. Someone has to look out for you, too, you know.”

Mr. Nook chuckles at this, and she can tell he’s fighting back tears again. “You are too good to me, Isabelle, really,” he tells her, and she grins, giving a mock bow. He sniffles, drying his own eyes. “I really need to rein it in soon, though. I don’t want the twins to be worried.” 

Isabelle nods. Mr. Nook stands and begins dusting himself off. She can see small wharf roaches scurrying around on the rocks below them, startled by the sudden movement and noise. She slowly lifts herself from her seated position, stretching and yawning. A good cup of tea sounds nice right about now. Perhaps some ginseng and lemon, with just a bit of honey. She can’t wait to take her shoes off and just sit in her recliner for a moment. Over the ocean ahead of them, thunder rumbles, which makes her all the more excited to relax at home with her drink and a good book. 

“Get some rest, Mr. Nook,” she directs. It isn’t a suggestion. She gives him a playful point, but her voice is stern. Mr. Nook laughs softly, shaking his head. 

“I’ll try,” is what he replies.

“Don’t try-  _ do  _ it,” Isabelle returns. “And don’t think I won’t know tomorrow either.”

He waves her off, slowly turning and making his way towards the shop. When Isabelle looks at her phone, it is just turning ten. She trots behind him, keeping an eye on him from afar until she has to turn her own way. The sky begins to break, gentle raindrops beginning to splash her head and shoulders. She shivers, anticipating her home already, and picks up the pace, glancing towards Mr. Nook’s way once more to watch him disappear into the Cranny before making a beeline to her home. By the time she shuts the door behind her, the sky has completely broken, heavy rainfall and thunder shattering her ears suddenly. She can only hope that Mr. Nook and the boys got home in time as she did - or even better, earlier. 

She fills her kettle and places it on the stove, letting the flames hum softly as she waits for her tea. She means to settle into her couch and get work done, but as soon as the ginseng touches her lips, she’s drowsy and content, and the rain dozes her off to sleep. 

She startles herself awake when the sun is peeking through her window, signaling a new day. Panicking, she pulls out her phone, which has a low battery, and checks the time. The sun is up; she takes this as a sign that she is either late for work, or pretty close to it. There are several missed messages on her phone. 

She glances at the time, only to heave a sigh of relief. She’s later than she would be to wake normally, but she has time, if she skips a couple of morning routines. She pushes herself out of the chair, yawning and stretching out sore muscles from the seated position she had been in for the past nine hours. She hadn’t realized she’d needed sleep that badly. 

She puts some slices in a toaster, warming up her brew from the night before, and plugs her phone in. She’ll have to keep it charged in the office too. She’d completely forgotten to plug it in last night. The screen brightens gratefully when it connects to power, lighting up her missed messages again. Curious, she leans over her cup and glances at it. If she isn’t tardy for work, who is needing her?

_ From Jonesy _ , it reads.  _ Isabelle!! I’m making those margaritas today! They’re extra sweet, like you!! _

There are more of them, detailing Jonesy’s gratitude for Isabelle ushering her off to bed for some much needed rest, and her excitement to meet up very soon for drinks. Isabelle shakes her head, laughing to herself. If it had been her, she would have just sent one long message. Jonesy has sent about three or four bubbles, each and every one almost as animated as if she’d said them in person. It is very telling of their personalities. Isabelle butters her toast, spreads some jam on it, and swallows it as quickly as she can before running out the door, nearly forgetting to lock it behind her. 

Not that it matters much. The island is too small for any burglar to get anywhere remotely far with it. She makes a dash towards the plaza, checking her watch on the way.

“Jonesy,  _ please _ . I’m trying to work, if you haven’t noticed,” she hears, just as she opens the Resident Service building door. Everything feels as if nothing climatic had occurred at all, with Jonesy leaning over the counter as always, badgering Mr. Nook with what looks to be a half constructed axe at the workbench. Mr. Nook catches her eye as she walks in, and gives her an exhausted nod. He seems more high spirited than when she’d last seen him though, so she’s hoping that he had gotten rest as she’d suggested. Then again, it could merely be Jonesy’s presence. The girl is known to have that effect on those around her. Even now, she’s tugging at Mr. Nook’s arm, energetically singing (a bit off key) a tune she’s not sure she’s heard before. 

Jonesy stops to imitate the sound of a piano with her mouth, a foot propped against the bench, fingers wriggling as if she were clunking its keys. “Oh,  _ baby _ , do you want to make it  _ better! _ ” she’s howling, the back of her hand slapping against Mr. Nook’s shoulder playfully. “Sing with me, Mr. Nook, I  _ know  _ you know this- do you want to stay  _ together! _ ” 

“I don’t, and even if I  _ did,  _ I don’t sing,” Mr. Nook replies evenly, trying to seem gruff. Isabelle catches that telltale dimple in the corner of his mouth though, the one that comes when he’s trying to bite down a smile and remain  _ professional _ . “And I have a  _ stack  _ of papers here to fill in, so unless you want to share my deskwork…”

He doesn’t get to finish. Jonesy flips up the countertop and barges her way in, making herself at home on Mr. Nook’s desk. Isabelle laughs and settles across from them, taking out her spray to water her plants. 

“Alright, all you had to do was  _ ask,  _ Boss,” Jonesy says. “You know I’m at your service!”

“Good morning,” Isabelle calls, finally. Her petunia is coming in quite nicely. 

Jonesy cranes her head around. “Omigosh, I didn’t even  _ see  _ you, Isabelle!” she exclaims, coloring. “I was so busy bothering - I mean,  _ assisting _ \- Old Tom here that I hadn’t even noticed!” 

She’s livelier than usual. Isabelle knows that on the surface, it could easily be taken as the fact that she’d finally gotten some good rest. She knows, however, that it’s Jonesy subtle way of checking in on Tom Nook after last night, without rendering him embarrassed or uncomfortable. Mr. Nook would probably rather forget his episode, and Jonesy is doing her best to pretend as if it hadn’t happened for his sake. It is a bit of a relief; she had hoped she wasn’t going to walk into a tense and awkward situation. For the Human Resources representative, she doesn’t do very well with confrontation in the slightest. It always left her so queasy, especially when she had to mediate between two angry parties. Even more so when she cared so dearly for both of them. 

“Mr. Nook, it is a crying  _ shame  _ you don’t know Anderson Paak; I’ll have to lend you my Spotify information sometime,” Jonesy is lamenting, and Mr. Nook is rolling his eyes, muttering to himself. 

The two of them continue chattering and playfully bickering like this, and Isabelle lets it fall into background noise. The reviews of the island and other applications for visitation suddenly don’t feel so overwhelming. She hadn’t meant to let Mr. Nook’s stress infiltrate her own peace of mind, but it was so hard to not look after him. He had such a heart for everyone around him, and often overlooked his own well being, and it worries her. The addition of Jonesy as the Resident Representative was the best thing that could have happened for both of them, in her opinion. Especially in this particular situation, she feels as if Jonesy is handling it expertly, despite the girl’s doubt in her own ability to do so. 

Isabelle knows that her own problem is that she tends to worry too much. She over thinks every situation and is afraid of offending, and as a result, sometimes does nothing at all. Sometimes she envies Jonesy, who dives headfirst into the problem and almost causes the answers to come to her, rather than trying to coax it out timidly. It seems to work rather well, and she is relieved that Mr. Nook has somewhat of  _ two  _ guardian angels looking out for him. She just wonders and hopes that she is able to be as helpful as possible. Starting with the applications and reviews, as mundane as it feels. If she can at least relieve Mr. Nook from some of his professional duties, perhaps he will have more strength to deal with his personal ones. 

With this in mind, she determines herself to complete most of the stack, if not all. They’re all labeled and in neat files thanks to her hard work from previous days, so it doesn’t take all too long to sort through them and settle into work. To add to the positivity, the reviews are glowing and the applications for visitation are blooming. The island, in what seems like such a short amount of time, has grown to be quite the tourist attraction. More than likely, it was kickstarted by K.K. Slider’s recurring shows, but it is still encouraging to see. There are a couple of suggestions for island decor and ambience, and she carefully slides them into a folder marked  _ Resident Representative _ . 

She glances up, and it’s at just the right time, because she and Jonesy lock eyes and communicate silently for a second before Isabelle redirects her attention to her own work, and Jonesy announces she’s off to explore the ocean again for Blather’s sake. 

“I’ll text you, Isabelle!” she exclaims, and Mr. Nook gives her an inquisitive glance, which she coyly chooses to ignore. She flags Jonesy down, holding out the folder in two hands. 

“Some of the islanders were suggesting some more lights on the walkways, especially for night time,” she says, as Jonesy flips through the pages, humming to herself. 

“Let me guess,” she replies, looking up with an eyebrow raised. “Eunice?” 

“Actually, no,” Isabelle flips through her submission forms. They’re supposed to be anonymous, but anytime Jonesy has asked for the source, it’s only ever been to ensure she gets some more detailed direction so she can try to improve the island in the best way per request. She catches the original form about the lighting, and her eyes widen. 

“It’s Kody.”

“Kody?” Jonesy looks incredulous at first, but then a conniving sort of smirk tugs at her mouth. “Oh, I think I know what  _ that’s  _ about. Cheesy little fucker. He should have just come and talked to me.” 

She taps into her phone, the folder tucked under her arm. “I’m on it!” 

Isabelle wants to ask what she knows, but Jonesy is already out the door, pestering Mr. Nook once more. Whatever it is she knows, it’s motivated her to make Kody’s specific request her priority project for the day. 

The building is always eerily quiet when Jonesy leaves. Isabelle is certain it’s because she had just become accustomed to the high level of activity. Mr. Nook is seemingly occupied, his head bent and nose buried in the bookkeeping, but she can hear him humming the same tune Jonesy has been belting earlier. She peers over her plant, seeing an opportunity to take a personal inventory on his well being. He seems a bit more well rested, but his eyes are still sad, as to be expected. She knows that he’s never quite seemed to shake those feelings for a long time now, but for the most part, had been able to keep them under control. Until Redd had returned. She’d always known he’d harbored feelings for Redd, but she’d thought that perhaps he’d been able to mend a bit better after all of this time. 

She sighs, and she  _ hates _ pinning yet something else on their Resident Representative, but she’s been able to find a solution to every obstacle their small community has had so far. If they work together, maybe they could find an answer to this one as well. Or at least, have a couple of good drinks over it. 

This stays in mind during her lunch break, with Jonesy almost on the dot ringing her on her phone. This is very out of character, as Jonesy is usually late or forgets an errand almost entirely for a day or two. She wonders if she’d remembered to get Kody’s lighting request finished, or at least part of the way begun. It’s no matter, really. She’ll ask when she sees her. 

“Mr. Nook, I’m taking my lunch break with our Resident Rep. today,” she announces, despite the pang of guilt she gets when she sees a genuine loneliness cross his face. On any other day, she would invite him, and she’s sure Jonesy would as well. She swallows, her eyes landing on the island evaluations. “She wanted to discuss some of the evaluations.” 

“Oh, yes, of course!” Mr. Nook replies, brightening. She isn’t sure if he is sincerely excited about this, or if he is merely finding something to distract him from everything else that is plaguing his mind. “While you’re with her, would you remind her to come by to collect a form for Blathers? He has some paperwork he needs to discuss with her for the…”

He clears his throat. Isabelle pretends she does not notice the slight tinge on his cheeks. 

“... the art wing, yes,” Mr. Nook continues, as if nothing is wrong. 

“Of course,” Isabelle offers, trying to shorten the conversation for both of their sakes. She reaches a hand out. “Why don’t you just give it to me now, and I’ll pass it along?” 

He’s reaching into the drawer before she can blink, clearly grateful for the opportunity to bury everything in his file cabinet. Eventually, she’s going to have to coax it out of him, again. But that is a later matter, as she’s reminded by the buzzing of her phone that she has a current appointment. She can ease Mr. Nook out of his contemplative melancholy in the near future. 

For now, she makes her way to Jonesy’s house, which is packed with the rest of the neighborhood. She’s always liked that about Jonesy; she loves being within the community and around them. In her own words it ‘makes it easier to build a community when you’re physically the community’. It shows in just about every aspect of her words and actions. Absent-minded and impulsive as she may be at times, she has a heart for the people she works for, and it makes up for it. 

Even better, she didn’t forget the drinks. Isabelle is more than grateful for that. 

“Hey! The party is here!” Jonesy calls, when she opens the door. Her house is about as discombobulated as Isabelle would have expected, and she can only  _ imagine  _ what the HHA leaves in her mailbox come Sundays. Looking at her crowded shelves and piled tables, she has a feeling that she probably hasn’t even read them. The kitchen is nice and cleared though, with only the mixers, liquor, and glasses decorating it. Jonesy pours her a salt rimmed glass, sliding an orange wedge onto the edge. 

“Thank you so much for this,” Isabelle sighs out, sinking into one of the high top chairs. “I’ve been needing a little break like this.” 

“You’re telling  _ me _ ,” Jonesy snorts, pouring herself a drink. She takes a full swig, contrary to Isabelle’s small sips. “I can only imagine  _ your  _ stress level though. At least I get the  _ fun  _ stuff.” 

“Did you get some rest? It seems that you did.”

Jonesy takes another drink, nodding vigorously. “Honestly, I’m glad you told me to go on to bed last night. I tend to forget, ah,  _ basic needs _ ,” she jokes, but Isabelle is well aware that this is something she actually tends to do. “But last night was kind of the breaking point for me, and I did just kind of need someone to order me to sleep. I was so lost and I felt like I couldn’t do anything.”

Isabelle hums in agreement, taking another sip.“I think you did pretty well,” she encourages, reaching over to pat her hand. Jonesy looks unspeakably grateful, her eyes widening and a relieved grin pulling at the corner of her lip. 

“You’re very kind, Isabelle, but seriously, I am not good at that kind of thing. I don’t know how I managed to even get him to stop all that crying before you came.” 

“You offered him one of your brownies. As long as I’ve known Mr. Nook, he can’t get enough of sweets. It was a good distraction.” 

Jonesy sighs. “Lucky me then, huh, for happening to have that on hand.” She rubs her eyes with her hand, exhaling dramatically, then pouring herself another round. She gestures to Isabelle’s glass, which is close to empty. “Another one for you as well?”

“I’ve got work again in about thirty minutes, but I suppose just one more won’t hurt.” 

Jonesy grins and winks, raising the Isabelle’s glass before refilling it. “ _ Aye _ , that’s the spirit!” she cheers, sliding the glass across the table. She makes herself comfortable on her table, swirling her drink a bit before taking a long drink, pausing in reflection for just a moment. It’s the quietest Isabelle has seen her. Then, she seems to awaken again, slurping at her drink, and turns to her with that recognizable look in her eye. The wild idea that just might work look. 

“So, what are we going to do about this Redd Alert, huh? I’m  _ sure  _ you’ve got some intel I need.”

Isabelle’s jaw drops, a bit sluggishly from the margarita. She’s feeling relaxed and giggly, and Joney’s question throws her for a loop. She covers her mouth. She hadn’t planned on saying anything, and it seems that Jonesy doesn’t expect her to, because she continues.

“I know I have intel  _ you  _ need.” 

Her eyebrows waggle as she says it, and it’s clear the drinks have taken some effect on her as well. Isabelle watches as she hops down again from her seat, muttering something incomprehensible as she disappears down the hallway. Isabelle sits quietly at her seat, waiting on her to return. The drink is the perfect blend of sweet and bite, and she wonders if Jonesy always mixes her drinks this way, or if she uniquely did it this way just for her. She’s not one for a strong drink, and she knows that Jonesy is a bit more on the wild side when it came to things like this - add this to her compromising and hospitable personality and she doesn’t doubt the latter. 

Jonesy returns, holding a portrait in her hand. “Check this out,” she says, holding it up, and Isabelle sees the very image of Jonesy’s face, painted in a thick medium she does not recognize. It’s clear where she got it from though, due to the context of their budding conversation and the light in Jonesy’s eyes.

“Want to hear a secret?” 

Well, when she puts it that way, and she’s already here and excitable from her drink, it is too tempting to say no. She nods her head eagerly, leaning forward across the kitchen table. Jonesy settles the painting next to her, clearing her throat and beginning her story. Isabelle listens intently - at first, with a childlike curiosity, and then, as Jonesy continues, with a genuine interest. She had never gotten to know Redd all too well herself; she hadn’t wanted to interfere due to being so sensitive to Mr. Nook’s animosity towards him. Jonesy, on the other hand, had no knowledge of the history, and so had gotten a foot in the door beforehand, and suddenly, the wheels seem to turn. 

Is she tentative and a bit suspicious still? Yes. But she’s willing to devise and scheme with Jonesy to try and make things right. 

“You know,” she interrupts gently, with this in mind. She’d barely spoken, but Jonesy immediately silences, eyes wide and waiting. She almost halts, but she can’t stop now, and if they’re going to try and pull this off together, it is probably important that Jonesy knows. She sips at her drink again, gazing at it for quite a while before casting aside any last inhibitions. “I think Mr. Nook never fell out of love with him. Redd, I mean. Actually, I know for a  _ fact _ that he’s loved him the entire time.” 

Jonesy claps her hands together once, more relieved than thrilled or excited, and Isabelle respects this. Something about her reaction eases her fears that this is simply a thrill seeking project for her - instead, more of a genuine sense of duty to help two people she cares about. Not that she should have ever doubted Jonesy’s motives. But gossip and drama are prone to thrive in small communities, and no one is really ever entirely adverse to it. But the widened look on Jonesy’s face and the way she exhales tells Isabelle that this has been something that Jonesy’s has been carrying for quite a while, just as unsure as she is about what the right thing to do entails.

“So it really is all just dramatic,” Jonesy sighs out, and rubs her temples. “Still a bit of a pain in my ass, but much less than I’d thought. Two old fools who miscommunicated are a much less complicated dilemma than two rivals who truly hate each other. Depending on our conversation, I was also gearing up to break the bad news to dear old Blathers. I’d had half a mind to chase Redd off the island.” 

Isabelle hums in thought. “So, what do you need me to do, Resident Rep?” she teases, grinning. “I’m here to assist.”

Jonesy folds her hands on top of the table, and it’s the most graceful move Isabelle has ever seen her do. She purses her lips in thought before continuing. “We’ll have to give them a space where they’re ready to meet halfway - no matter the conclusion. Either they still feel the same after all of these years, and want to try again, or they’ll part as cordial friends sometimes thinking about what could have been. Either way, the goal is that they part amicably.”

She winks audaciously. “You know I’m all about building bridges around here.”

“And tearing them down too, within a week or so,” Isabelle replies quickly, and watches Jonesy throw her head back in laughter. “How long has this last one lasted? Has it been a month yet?”

“Three weeks, so almost! Don’t give up hope on me yet,” Jonesy returns, trying her best to give off a snooty air and failing. She can’t stop giggling. Isabelle would pin it on the alcohol, but Jonesy is always extremely good natured and on the verge of a laugh. 

“So,” Isabelle murmurs, her mind now on the task at hand. “How about I’ll be  _ good cop _ with Tom, since he needs a gentle nudge, and you can go  _ bad cop _ with Redd since he needs a literal  _ push _ .”

“Oh - cute, sweet,  _ and  _ smart? You’re a triple threat, Isabelle!”

Isabelle blushes at this, shaking her head. “You really are too  _ much _ , Jonesy,” she mutters to herself, grinning madly. She’s never felt quite so accomplished, especially not in comparison to their Resident Representative. Something about being  _ needed _ has always felt good for her; being around such hard working individuals has always left her feeling quite lacking, despite that not ever being their intention. The compliment, in jest or not, leaves her warm inside, in the same way her tea had just last night. She can feel it spreading from her core to every inch of her.

“Oh, by the way,” she adds, as the thought crosses her mind. She checks her watch, just to make sure she has the time. “Why  _ did  _ Kody want those lights?”

The look on Jonesy’s face gives her a sense of kinship she’s not sure she’s ever felt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update. It's my own sluggishness this time, really. If there are any mistakes in this that I missed, please don't hesitate to let me know! I'm tired of rereading my own work.
> 
> The song Jonesy is singing is here: 
> 
> https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=XUUZddhpjMY


	13. LightHouse Keeper

Redd hasn’t shown up in weeks. He’d know if he had, because Jonesy would have said something. They’d come to an agreement that as long as Redd only dealt with her on the beach, and did not come onto the island, they could continue business as usual. He tells himself it is only for Blathers’ sake, but the heavy disappointment he feels when Jonesy easily shakes hands with him and doesn’t argue for Redd’s admittance onto the island cannot be ignored. 

He fiddles with his wallet, his eyes lingering on the tiny 2.5 by 3.5 sketches. He had been so young then; his eyes in the smudged charcoal still look much wider and brighter than they are now. He remembers being up at five in the morning, just for the fun of it. He’d make a cup of coffee, sit outside his apartment on the old worn steps, and watch the sun rise slowly behind the buildings of the city. It wasn’t the most glamorous view, and he’d often find himself missing the flowering fields and mountains of his hometown, but there was something romantic about the aggressive honking and the shouting from neighboring apartments. Even the loads of garbage that were always waiting around and were never quite picked up. 

“You’re the most bizarre person I’ve ever met, Nookie,” Redd would say, shaking his head. Redd would usually be up much later, stumbling out onto the steps with a cigarette in hand, and sleep still in his eyes. He’d always sit next to him though, waving the smoke around, and they’d sit together in silence. Bizarre as it may sound, those are some of the moments with Redd he misses the most. Nothing but their souls and the sounds of the city, mingling until it felt like they were all one. 

Now they’re two, and even though Tom is still unforgivably angry at Redd for what he had caused between them, he sometimes yearns for those days again, sitting on cracked steps and watching dumpsters behind the apartments. 

“Are you having trouble sleeping again, Mr. Nook?” he hears Isabelle call, and meets worried eyes across their divider. She’s already passing him a cup of tea, urging him to take it. “It has low caffeine, but it’s better than nothing, right?” 

He grunts softly and reaches for it, but her eyes linger on him, wringing her hands nervously. She wants to say something, he can tell, and he knows what it’s going to be about. He slips the tiny sketch back into his wallet, pocketing it away and rubbing his eyes. Might as well face the inevitable. If he deals with it now, perhaps it won’t bother him so much later. He’s tried ignoring it long enough, and that particular plan of action clearly was not boding well for him or anyone else. 

“Alright, Isabelle, what is it?” he asks, and she’s about to respond, when the doors slam open. He’s sure it’s Jonesy from the energy that enters the room, but is surprised to see that it is one of their residents. He knows him, he  _ does _ . He just isn’t good with names and faces much.

Isabelle’s face looks downtrodden for a moment, before fixing it into her familiar welcoming smile. She slides her little tulip to the side - the one she’s been working on for quite a while, he can see that it has a second bud blooming now - and leans over the counter. It’s still a bit dainty, but he can see how there’s a bit of Jonesy in her lately; it’s mixed in with her usual mannerisms just a bit. Two months ago Isabelle would not lean over the counter, except maybe with her hands folded. Not that he’s complaining. She seems more high spirited than ever, and less exhausted and frazzled. Whatever it is that Jonesy has injected her with, he’s happy for it. 

Perhaps he’ll ask Jonesy for a shot himself. 

“Kody!” Isabelle exclaims, practically wiggling in delight, and  _ ah _ , that’s his name. Tom knew this. He’d just forgotten. He sits up, waving politely. 

“Yes, yes - Kody. How can we assist you?”

Kody, who had come in like a sure and strong storm, suddenly freezes in his tracks. “Ah  _ -ha, _ Jonesy made this sound  _ way  _ easier, man,” he groans, flushing. Even though he’d forgotten his name, Tom remembers his ease and confidence with everything he did. He was a bit braggadocious, but he always meant well, and had a heart of gold - or at least, it seemed he did. But what’s strange to him is the way Kody seems a bit deflated of that normal assurance now, messing with his pockets and not quite meeting them in the eyes. He slowly makes his way to the counter, and Tom does not want to appear nosy, so he makes himself busy with his paperwork again. It might be his presence that’s intimidating Kody so much. 

“Take your time, Kody,” Isabelle offers helpfully. “We’re in no rush here. Did you need our help for something?” 

Something about her tone informs Tom that she already knows what Kody’s about to say. Kody continues to fiddle with his pockets for a moment before swallowing heavily and raising his head, just a bit. Tom notices he continues to look at the plant. 

“Well,” he starts, nervously. He huffs. “This is so  _ lame _ , bro. I can pump iron all day but I can’t just  _ talk _ to you about this.”

“We have different strengths, Kody,” Isabelle says, gently. “I can’t  _ pump iron _ , as you’d describe it. But I might have a strength I  _ can  _ help you with.” 

Kody laughs, and Tom thinks that this is specifically true about Isabelle. She certainly has quiet strengths that add to the diversity and flourish on the island. It would not be the same without her. There’s a particularly motherly touch that she has, that neither he nor Jonesy can bring. 

“Okay, that makes sense,” Kody is responding, and even though he still appears to be sweating profusely, his shoulders are more relaxed. “ _ Okay _ . It’s about Cheri. I want to do something really special for her, since I guess we’re sorta together and all, and I kinda need your permission to use the plaza.” 

He scuffs his toe against the ground, and Tom remembers being in love, and he hopes that Kody always gets to feel this way - this fluttering excitement and nervousness. He hopes he gets to settle into it and it never goes sour for him. 

“And some help with decorating and distracting her, if that’s not too much to ask. Jonesy said she can handle Cheri if you two help me with the rest,” Kody continues, and it’s the first time he makes eye contact since he’s spoken. “So… can you help me, Ms. Isabelle? Mr. Nook?” 

Tom feels as if he’s said his name more as an afterthought, out of sympathy, but he nods anyways. He could use a break from the office, and if he puts his focus on someone else, he’ll feel much better. He’ll be distracted from his own thoughts, anyways, and that’s always a good thing. And he’ll get to be outside for once. He does miss the sun. 

“Of course!” Isabelle shouts, clapping. She’s already at Kody’s side by the time that Tom stands up out of his chair, and he longs for that energy again. Kody is still flustered, but he has an undeniable grin now, scrubbing at his hair with a small brush. He’s nervous, Tom can tell, and even as Isabelle encourages him and seems confident everything will work out just fine, Kody doesn’t speak all too much, just nodding along to what she says and following her instructions. 

Streamers and flowers and candles later, Kody is bent over, focused on arranging some lilies  _ right where she should walk in _ , and Isabelle is snorting under her breath, trying not to embarrass him. Tom finds himself in a bit of a sweat from dragging one of the water fountains to a new position for what feels like the millionth time, and wonders if Kody will ever feel anything is quite perfect enough. He knows he never would, if he was attempting to put together something special for someone so dear to him. He tends to fret about those sorts of things, and then freeze up and really not do anything at all. Perhaps it makes sense he’s alone in these later years. At this time in his life, his old heart probably could not survive the insurmountable stress of it all. 

Isabelle makes her way over to him, helping him lift the fountain so that it doesn’t scrape against the terracotta. “I saw you looking at those pictures again, Mr. Nook,” she drops casually, as if merely listing off the day’s agenda. 

Tom coughs, suddenly interested in the fine detail of the carvings along the fountains frame. He’s never noticed the small leaf and flower patterns, and wonders if Jonesy had it commissioned this way, or if she’d just taken the time to learn it herself and do it. Either option would not surprise him. He can feel his heartbeat just behind his eyes, and he’s perspiring just beneath his collar. 

“I… must we talk about this  _ now _ , Isabelle?” he nearly wheezes out, throwing a panicked glance towards Kody. 

Isabelle follows his eyes, then turns back, unbothered. Somehow, Jonesy is behind this, and he  _ feels  _ it. Normally, Isabelle would shy away from the subject, timidly asking again at another time, or only pushing at the most dire need. They’re not in any emergency, and yet here she is, the most brazen she’s ever been, waiting on a response. That’s Jonesy’s look all over her face, and he feels trapped in a corner. 

But then she pats his hand, and her sweet demeanor is still there, that gentle smile on her face. “It’s better to get it all out, you know,” she continues, when he stays stuck, feeling like there’s the largest almond stuck in his throat. He never eats anything with nuts- not since he’d nearly choked on some desserts that had those horrid things stuffed inside them. “And besides, look at the guy. Does it really look like he’s paying much attention to anything else?”

She’s right. He’s fully immersed in selecting tracks of music on the old stereo now, picking through and humming to himself - and sometimes, thinking aloud. It’s almost as if he’s forgotten they exist so close to him. He sighs, shoulders drooping. He’d known this was coming since the morning.

“Alright - I’ll admit,” he relays, very reluctantly at that. “I have been looking after those sketches more often than usual, as of late. It’s just…  _ difficult _ to not look, you know? And I know I ought to throw them away and just forget any of it ever existed, but… they’re quite good. And I can’t let go, either. Even if I threw the sketches away, the memories would stay, good and bad, and I…” 

“I hope you’re not under the impression I’m suggesting you throw them away, sketches  _ or  _ memories,” Isabelle interjects, arranging a few cosmos and tulips together in a vase. “It’s for the table, Kody wants a little candlelight on a low picnic table - and I’d never suggest you do such a thing. It’s alright to still have  _ feelings  _ about things, or people, you know.”

“I know,” Tom mumbles, quietly. Something about having his twenty or so junior chastising him on the paths of love leave him a bit mortified. He should be the one mentoring, not the other way around. 

“Especially when you were once so close. And besides, you really haven’t  _ talked  _ to him since you’re little, uhm…” Isabelle pauses, and he tries not to visibly cringe at her delicate caution to not label his and Redd’s connection as anything romantic. Redd may have always spoken to him as if he loved him, but Redd spoke to everyone as if he had the most earnest feelings for them, and he’d made it perfectly clear that what he’d loved the most was  _ money _ . It didn’t seem as if that had changed at all, either. 

“What would I tell him, Isabelle?” he cuts, saving her from her floundering in a sea of no words. “I thought I’d made it obvious enough of my…” he lowers his voice when Kody glances their way. They both wave. 

“...my  _ feelings _ for him,” he continues, when the coast seems clear again. Isabelle points to the other fountain behind them, and he stands, his knees groaning as they unbend. It comes with age, he’s heard. He slowly lumbers behind her, the both of them straining to lift the second fountain to move to the other corner. It’s opposite of where Kody sits, so now he feels less inclined to look over his shoulder, quite literally. “I gave him many opportunities to return them, and he clearly rejected them.”

“ _ You _ ,” Isabelle states, trying and failing miserably to hide her smile. “I’m sorry, may I ask, just what exactly is your idea of giving an  _ opportunity  _ like that?”

He pauses. 

“Did you… Mr. Nook, please tell me you mean that you  _ told  _ him outright. As in, verbatim,  _ Redd, I am falling in love _ -”

“No, no, I suppose I get your point,” Tom interrupts hurriedly, as Isabelle had gotten a bit too loud for his liking. Kody calls something out to them about needing to run to his house, and they wave him off, Isabelle giving a casual salutation before turning back to him, eyes wide and incredulous, and on the verge of laughter.

“Jonesy would have a  _ field day _ if she were me right now.” 

“Then it’s a good thing that’s not within her paycheck, hmm?” Tom replies, a bit too quick and a bit too nervous. Isabelle doesn’t respond to this, humming to herself and adjusting the fountain so that it sits just right. He can imagine it though. Jonesy would never let him live such a thing down. Her aptitude is so  _ contrary  _ to his. He cannot see her ever choking up on a love confession. Quite the opposite, in fact. He’s sure the person of her affection would know quite quickly, if she ever met them. He’s even more sure the  _ world  _ would know if she had any such fancy.

“Speaking of Jonesy,” he continues, a bit too eager to change the subject. Isabelle gives a huff, but it seems her incessant need to prod and poke at his tender sensibilities has subsided for now. “It’s about five, isn’t it? I have a surprise for her arriving at the airport.” 

Now she’s completely immersed, eyes darting towards the airport and then back, a quizzical look overcoming her features. “What? And I had no knowledge of this?” 

Tom grins cheekily, shrugging. He pulls out his phone, ignoring Isabelle’s barrage of questioning, shoving her off playfully. He dials Jonesy’s number, hearing an entire chaos on the other end of the line, before her voice comes through, vibrant as ever. 

“Hey Bossman! What’re you calling me for- it must be an emergency,” she chimes, and he’s vowing to change that. He doesn’t let it bother him so much this time though. 

“Jonesy - I have a potential resident trying to move in. He said he’s requesting your services in about fifteen or so minutes,” Tom explains casually, trying not to explode in excitement. It’s not often lately that he’s been graced with the feeling of doing something right. He’s sure of it now though, and Isabelle’s eagerness to know what is happening only spikes his anxious glee. “I know you’ve got Cheri right now, but do you think you can make it down there without her coming around the pavilion? Isabelle and I are about done here, but Kody’s gone to grab a couple of things from home, so he may need a bit more time.” 

“Oh, so you’re a part of the Kori Project. That’s good!” Jonesy replies, and he has no earthly clue what she means by that, but he assumes it’s a code for what he’s doing right now. She’s clearly come up with some kind of cover to keep Cheri in the dark. “Yeah, we can arrange that really quick.” 

“What have you done, Mr. Nook?” Isabelle is pestering him as soon as he hangs up. He just shrugs her off. 

“You’ll see,” he replies smoothly, dusting his shorts. “I just figured since she’s done so much, it’s about time I showed her some gratitude. I invited an old friend of hers that I know she’ll be ecstatic to see again. Now, come on. We’ve got work to do, and I’m pretty sure Kody doesn’t want us around when he’s surprising his girl.” 

Isabelle just stares after him, but trots along behind him silently, the wheels in her head clearly turning. It’s almost disheartening, having to return to the silent, artificially lit building when they’d just been out of doors for the longest they’d ever been in awhile, but for once, the paperwork isn’t as overwhelming to him, and whenever he starts to catch himself feeling a bit down about the entire Redd business, he just distracts himself with the thought of Kody and Cheri, and with imagining Jonesy’s face when she sees her surprise. It’s harder to  _ not  _ smile now, despite his intermingling and strange sadness, and he finds himself a bit less lonely these days. He finds the usual quiet sounds of the building suddenly welcoming and kind, from the ticking of the clock to the small fan on Isabelle’s desk that whirs and turns back and forth steadily. 

He still pulls out the sketches though, and something about what Isabelle had said earlier had lodged itself deep inside him, and he found he couldn’t quite shake it. He’s heard that it’s alright to feel emotions and let them pass through, but he’s finding more often than not that those feelings don’t simply  _ pass through _ , but rather, make themselves at home in his heart. He doesn’t know how to just let them pass, or even how to evict them completely, as they’ve long overdue their stay. Like the first time Redd had held his hand - and he  _ knows  _ it was never meant to be in that way, he  _ knows  _ Redd is simply a physically more affectionate person with anyone and everyone around him. But it had meant  _ something _ to him, even if it had meant nothing to Redd. He still feels how he’d felt then, warm and with his pulse beating wildly at his throat, trying to find words to say and coming across none. 

“Your eyes, they’re like  _ sapphires _ , Snookums,” Redd had told him, when they were out on those cursed and beloved front steps. It had been evening that time, because Redd had insisted that watching the sun set and the streetlamps come on was an entirely different type of magic than in the morning. “I can never get enough of them.” 

Tom had tried to squeeze a  _ thank you _ out of himself, as his mother had raised him to be polite, but he found he could only give out a parched sounding  _ hmm _ , and had turned back towards the sun, trying very hard to focus on anything other than his temperature rising and the way he suddenly felt jittery and tingled all over.

He huffs at himself now, still shaking over it, when it was obvious why Redd had said it.  _ Of course  _ he’d used sapphires. Redd loved riches, and material things. He knows that every shady business that crook had gotten himself entangled in, he’d done it through vapid flattery and shallow-sweet words. He’d just been another counterpart stupid enough to fall for it. He wouldn’t be surprised if Redd truly  _ had  _ been coming onto him, just to take advantage of his emotions and catch him off guard. Redd had never needed him, let alone  _ wanted  _ him.

He wonders how many other business partners still pine after him though, or if he’s the only one who was truly that stupid. Who still  _ is  _ that stupid. Parts of him want to believe it was all a huge mistake. Wouldn’t that be nice - and so convenient for everyone, him included? 

“Mr. Nook- what have you done?” Jonesy’s voice cuts, clear and sharp, and just in time. He’d just started to feel his eyes water up to the brim, and he hastily wipes at them before looking up, in shock for only a moment. He’d nearly forgotten his surprise. 

“Me?” he asks, feigning innocence. Jonesy is already rushing towards his counter, with their new resident at the door, rolling his eyes and laughing under his breath, chewing a pick between his teeth. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you mean, Jonesy.” 

Jonesy’s eyes are the widest he’s seen them in awhile, with the most thrilled expression dancing on her face. She chucks the countertop up and flings her arms around his neck, and he only hesitates for a moment before awkwardly hugging her back. She jumps back and grabs his hands, swinging them back and forth. Her eyebrows are wriggling in disbelief. Isabelle, just at her counter now, is wide eyed and glancing back and forth rapidly, trying to intake all of the information. 

“I don’t believe for  _ one second _ you weren’t involved in this,  _ Senor Tom Nook _ ,” she sing-songs, nudging at him with a gentle fist. “I can’t seem to figure out how you managed it though. You sly fuck.”

Tom chokes on his words, trying very hard to keep a stern face. In this particular case, he finds it really can’t matter much. The only other individuals in the building are Isabelle and the new resident, and both of them have clearly been acquainted enough with Jonesy to know she has the mouth of a weathered sailor. And the drinking habit of one. If she wasn’t so helpful and participative, Tom would have had half a mind to fire her. 

On second thought, he’s not sure he could. It takes a lot to make him let go of someone, and even then, he never really does. He just buries his face in his hands, finally letting his grin escape.

“Alright, you caught me,” he admits, and Jonesy fist pumps as if she’s won some sort of prize. “When I came across Marshall’s paperwork and caught your name, I figured the two of you might have wanted to rendezvous, so to say.” 

He scratches at the back of his neck awkwardly. “Think of it as a thanks, from me. For everything you’ve done in general, and ah, these past few weeks particularly.” 

“And here I thought all my hard work would get me bells deducted from my loans,” Jonesy teases, crossing her arms as if she’s disappointed. 

“So you’re saying my presence isn’t as valuable to you as bells? Heartless,” Marshall speaks up finally, from the doorway. Jonesy turns and giggles, and Marshall grins, leaning against the doorframe with his hands in his pockets. “I  _ knew _ there was something I liked about you.” 

“Sorry, Marshmallow, you know you’re the only one who has my heart. Hand it back and I promise I’ll be kinder,” Jonesy replies, winking. Marshall rolls his eyes, huffing. 

“Embarrassing me in front of the Island Admin already? I  _ just _ got here, Jones. Can’t you let me have my roguish credentials for at least two minutes?” 

Jonesy bows in mock apology. “ _ Ah _ . I’ve wounded your fragile masculinity. My humblest apologies. Let me make it up to you with a special personalized tour of the place,” she offers, holding out her hand. She then turns back to Tom and Isabelle, saluting playfully. 

“Mr. Nook, I don’t care  _ what _ they say about you. You’re the best boss on this island.” 

“I’m also the  _ only  _ boss in this island,” Tom returns, but he feels warm all the same, still a bit breathless that his plans had turned out every bit as good as he’d hoped it would. Jonesy lets the countertop fall down gently behind her - the most aware she’s ever been about how she abuses that thing - and rushes off, giving a hurried wave to the both of them and dragging Marshall behind her, already babbling away to him as if he’d always been on the island. Tom supposes that makes sense, as they’d been friends long before. 

The silence falls again in the building, but he can hear the echoes of their voices just outside. When they finally fade away, Isabelle sighs aloud, catching his attention. 

“You seem proud of yourself,” she comments in between stamping envelopes and sliding letters into them. She’s grinning, waiting for an explanation. Tom, for the first time, rolls his chair closer to their dividing counter, tapping his fingers on the wood. 

“I am,” he decides. He looks out toward the window, where he can still see their silhouettes just behind a grove of trees. “She deserves it, that one. I couldn’t help myself when I saw her name on his application. I don’t think he even knew she was here. He just stated that she was one of his closest friends, and it was her fault he’d even wanted to venture out and try a new residence in the first place.”

He turns, feeling himself glaze over just a bit with a temporary sadness. “And, you know, after that whole Henry bit… I know she was down about it. Even though she didn’t mention it, I could see it.” 

Isabelle cocks her head at him. “And you doubt your abilities as a leader. I wouldn’t have even made the connection,” she says, pursing her lips. 

“I don’t believe that at all,” Tom replies, but he’s feeling it again. The warmth. 

When the clock strikes for closing, he’s hardly noticed the familiar chime. He’s never asked what it was, although he knows Jonesy chose it. She changes that constantly as well though, so by the time he asks, she will probably give him a different name. It’s not matter. 

“That’s us, Mr. Nook.”

“It surely is.”

He waits as Isabelle packs her things together neatly in a little shoulder bag. Her file folders slide in just right in the side pocket, and she snaps it shut and drapes it over her shoulder before nodding to him. He makes his way to the door, holding it open for her, and out they go, earlier than usual. He can catch the last rays of the sun. They wave at Kody and Cheri, who are mid conversation, chattering away eagerly and nowhere near aware of their passing by. It is safe to assume it has all gone well. That’s two things he’s done right today. It’s a good feeling. 

They come to their crossroads, Isabelle adjusting her shoulder bag, Tom fiddling with his wallet again. Isabelle reaches for his shoulder, squeezing him tenderly. 

“You know you can… talk to me. That  _ is  _ my job,” she says, and the way she says it comes off in a jest, but her eyes say otherwise. She’s concerned, and he doesn’t think she should be. She has enough already to worry about. “I’m here to help, you know.” 

Tom looks toward the shop. The twins are outside, playing soccer with Jonesy and Ketchup. He can hear their chorus of laughter, ringing together perfectly. When he peers, he can see Marshall on the side, and he can hear his nasal, condescending voice. The sun goes down a bit more. 

“I know,” he replies, feeling himself choking up again. If he went just now and asked to join, would his boys even want him there? It may all be a bit too late for that. He coughs, clearing away the ghosts, and gives Isabelle a half-hearted smile. Hopefully it is dusk enough out that she can’t tell. “And I appreciate it. There just isn’t much you can do. Good night, Isabelle.”

He starts to walk off when she calls after him. 

“At least think about what I’d said!” 

He scrunches his nose at her. A lot has happened today. She’s said a lot. He isn’t sure what she means, and his memory fails to remind him of anything she’d said that he should be thinking about. 

Isabelle, bites her lip, then huffs. He swears she stomps her foot, but he isn’t sure. 

“About  _ Redd _ .” 

Oh. Well, he doesn’t want to think much about Redd. Not after such a good day. Isabelle is staring after him though, and he doesn’t want her to think he doesn’t appreciate her advice, so he nods, waving her off. It seems to be enough for her, for now. 

He isn’t sure how she’d got it in her head that him speaking with Redd was a good idea. She, more than anyone else, knows exactly what that scoundrel meant to him. What he’d  _ done _ , and what it had meant. She had always been so heartfelt in her support of him distancing himself before. There’s been a change in the wind, and he isn’t sure he’s comfortable with it. Perhaps it’s the sadness. He had made the mistake of telling her he’d been at his happiest when he’d been with Redd. 

It is true though, whether he likes it or not. There isn’t any kind of joy he can try to fabricate that was quite like that one he had when they were together. 

“Oy, here comes the big man! Come be goalie, your nephews are kicking my butt!”

“Uncle Tom, you play soccer? You can’t be on Jonesy’s team - that’s not fair!”

“...not fair!” 

Well, he can come close to it. 

“Alright,” he groans, although he’s anything but exasperated. “But only for a minute, then it’s off to the house for dinner and bed.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why won't it let me add the symbol for Senor? Racism. 
> 
> And yes, I got Marshall the other day, and it was very exciting because that squirrel has been my dude since Wild World and Pocket Camp. This chapter is very long, and I apologize. I let the story take over and kind of tell itself, and it's long winded. And so am I. So here we are.


	14. Thar He Blows

“I think I’m about settled here, thanks to your help,” Marshal grunts, shoving a cardboard box under his desk with his foot. The place is still littered with boxes here and there, but all in all, it’s pretty much put together. Marshall is about as much of a hoarder as Jonesy is, so she understands his way of organizing. As long as everything is in some sort of neat pile and separated off by categories of some type, it’s clean enough. She does this now, settling some mail in a cardboard box and setting it up sideways as a makeshift shelf, so he’ll see the various envelopes stacked up neatly next to each other. “Looks like I’m not the only lady in your life, huh?” she jokes, grasping her shirt as if wounded. She dramatically poses by the table, batting her eyes and pressing her hands to her chest. “I’d always hoped maybe I was your one and only.” 

“Knock it off,” Marshal mock-groans, shoving against her. He leans over to break down yet another empty box, smashing it flat between his palms. “Although it’s nice to see you haven’t changed a bit.” 

Jonesy grins, stacking a flattened box of her own on top of his. She pulls off a band and wraps her hair up, sweat dripping down the back of her neck. “We have _got_ to get you some air in here, man,” she pants, pulling at her shirt to fan herself. “The island gets pretty muggy after it rains.” 

She tugs at the window, pushing it up and open. There’s a bit of a breeze coming from the ocean, so there is a moment of temporary relief, but heat continues to billow in as well. The waves are deliciously tempting. If she didn’t have a full itinerary of work today, she would go for a swim right now. Marshal is lucky that his house is so near to the beach. It had just so happened that Lucha had moved out, leaving the lot empty, so Marshal easily moved right in.

“Come on,” she says, tugging at Marshall. “Let’s go get drinks at my house. We need a break.” 

Marshal grunts, picking up the stack of flattened boxes. Jonesy holds his front door open for him, bowing dramatically.

“After you, milady.” 

“Fuck off.” 

They make their way towards Jonesy’s house, stopping by the recycling just outside the shop. The twins are out and about, eagerly assisting them with the boxes, chattering about many various ideas of what they could do with them. Jonesy highly doubts either one of the twins will actually get down to it - they’re both the more active type and not so much the crafty type - but she smiles and nods along, and elbows Marshal whenever he begins to formulate a sarcastic reply. 

“We haven’t had this many boxes since Henry moved out,” Tommy starts. Timmy crashes right behind him, an echoing “...Henry moved out…” They stare at each other awkwardly before busying themselves with stacking the flattened cardboard, hurriedly changing the subject. Jonesy, despite the way she suddenly feels like she can’t breathe, takes the offer, chatting them up on creating a makeshift obstacle course, among other things. 

“We could use it as an attraction here,” she suggests, and watches the relief settle on their preteen faces. “It’s recycling. People love stuff like that.” 

Marshal gives her a look, but he doesn’t say anything, grunting and dropping the rest of his stack and clapping his hands together to shake off excess dust. “Well,” he coughs out, more than awkwardly, “I’m still thirsty, and hot. Let’s go get that water before I turn into a raisin.” 

Jonesy leans over and squeezes the boys in her arms, with hasty promises to play again when they close up shop, and chases after Marshal, who’s already out the door, the shop bell ringing as it shuts behind them. The walk to the house is fairly silent, with Marshal commenting on the heat every passing couple of minutes or so, and then dramatically sighing in exhaustion and joy when Jonesy opens the door of her home, the cool air blasting their faces. He throws himself into her chair, as if he’s been here for years now. He might as well have. 

“I’m sleeping over until that air is fixed,” he says, while Jonesy pours him a glass. “And who’s Henry?” 

Jonesy grimaces, and Marshal raises a brow, sipping at the cool water and smacking his lips in satisfaction. “All that talk about how I was the only one who had your heart, and you’ve been flirting behind my back with some other escort. How very _Jezebelian_ of you.” 

“He was _amazing_ , Marshall. You would have liked him,” Jonesy replies wistfully, and she’s trying not to get all teared up over it again. As often as she and Henry share correspondences, it still isn’t quite the same as being able to drop by his house for a good cup of tea and a vent session. Besides, she isn’t entirely sure she could write everything she’s been experiencing in a letter. She’s pretty sure she _shouldn’t_. 

“Jonesy, your list and my list of people we like is very different. _Mainly_ because my list is much shorter than yours.”

As little as she feels like it, Jonesy laughs. “I’m on the list though, right?”

“I’ll think about it.” 

Jonesy elbows him to pull herself out of her funk, causing him to splash some of his water on himself. He growls. “C’mon,” she urges, pulling at his arm. “The others are dying to see the new resident.” 

At this, Marshal rolls his eyes, sliding off the chair, glass still in hand. Even with the air, the glass is perspiring, droplets of condensation clinging to its frame and sliding their way down. Marshal swipes at it with his free hand, then pushes Jonesy’s chair back under the table, muttering to himself. “Just what I wanted, to be toted around like the latest fad. I always knew I was star quality.” He still comes along though, looping his arm through Jonesy’s, as if they’re an elderly retired couple in an old folks community, and doesn’t make too much of a fuss each time they stop to say hello to a resident. Jonesy has to give him credit where it’s due, particularly with her dearest friends. As much as she loves Ketchup and Cheri, she’s well aware they can be a bit overwhelming in their energy for some. Marshal being one of them; he’s always had _crotchety old man_ patience, and she’s told him this before, to which he’d laughed and flipped her off, but they both know it’s true. 

It takes a good hour before she can tear him away from Ketchup and Cheri, who beg for him to come around for get-togethers. Marshal makes some kind of half-hearted promise, but she can tell he’s a bit intrigued about it. He can pretend all he wants. There’s no point in lying about it to her. She doesn’t press him about it though, merely guiding him towards her secret beach, with promises of a good drink and a cool inlet to swim in. This is how they stay for a good while, drinking and lazing in the sun, splashing in the small waves that lap on the shore when they get just a bit too hot. Jonesy is aware in the back of her mind that she has responsibilities to attend to, but she thinks that Mr. Nook will most likely forgive her for slacking off today. Probably. He won’t understand it though; getting that man to relax is an entire task all on its own. Getting him to do a lot of things is a task on its own. 

Which makes her wonder just how, exactly, Redd is going to get any sort of communication from him. And just how, exactly, _she’s_ supposed to help in any way. Is she even supposed to help, at all? Meddling has never been her thing, unless someone asks for her help. She likes to mind the business that pays her. Although, Mr. Nook _does_ pay her, so he is sort of her business, even with that logic. She laughs aloud, and Marshal looks at her with a crooked eyebrow. She knows she has to look _insane_ right about now, but Marshal is an old friend. He should know by now how her mind works. 

Nevertheless, he elbows her in jest. “I told you being on a deserted island would make you go koo-koo,” he says, twirling a finger by his head. He gives her a once over, sipping at his drink in scrutiny. “I didn’t realize how much worse you could get though.” 

Jonesy leans over to punch him in the arm when she catches it. The smoke. 

“Speak of the devil,” she mutters in awe, a hand in midair just above Marshal, who for the second time in ten minutes gives her a bewildered stare, and then mutters to himself. She doesn’t catch what he says though, her attention now on the long-gone trawler that she hasn’t seen in quite a while. The last time she and Redd had spoken, he had seemed pretty determined to have a hearty self-reflection. She’d also nearly beat his ass to a Nook Mile ticketed island and back, but that’s another story. She wonders just what he’s mulled over while he was gone, or if he really had thought about anything whatsoever. For all she knows, he’s gone and dealt more risky ventures, and learned nothing at all. 

A part of her wants to be persuaded by the benefit of the doubt. It’s no matter though, either way - there’s only one way to find out. 

“Another lover, eh, Jonesy? You really are _wounding_ me,” she catches Marshal call out when she jumps out of her chair. She turns and winks at him salaciously, and he kicks sand up at her in futility. She nods her chin towards his drink, still backing up into the small inlet.

“Down it, you’ll forget all about me and feel better,” she teases back, and he leans into his chair and laughs. 

She’s only ankles deep in the water as the boat slowly rolls in, hands on her hips, waiting. Trying not to be anxious. She and Isabelle _had_ created a very intricate and delicate procedure, and it _feels_ pretty foolproof, but fools can prove anything, when they feel like it, facts or no. Which is why they’re fools in the first place, she supposes. And people are fools in love. So she’s heard. When she catches Redd’s face, wide eyed and grinning as if their last conversation had never occurred, she starts to think it might be true. He _does_ appear pretty foolish, galivanting down the haphazardly thrown docking board. He looks like a kid on Christmas. Which, despite the hot weather, they’re close to it. Jonesy still gets whiplash from living in the Southern Hemisphere. 

“Been a bit,” she says, squinting up at him as he approaches her. 

“Long enough, I’d agree, kid,” he returns. She’s surprised by how tightly and suddenly he embraces her, and he’s shaking her by her arms before she can return the affection.   
“Not to be a sentimental old man, but I sure have missed you.” 

“Not to be a sentimental girl, but I missed you too, I _guess_ ,” Jonesy replies, but even if she wanted to, she can’t stop herself from grinning. She socks him in his arm gently when he lets her go, nudging him over to the beach. “Come meet my main man, before he gets all too jealous.” 

Redd snorts, and wiggles his brows as if he wants to say something, but settles with a smirk, trotting next to her silently. She takes a sip of her drink before jerking her head towards Marshal. “This is Marshal. He just moved here, but we have a history about as old as Creation.” 

“Speaking of old, this guy’s a bit out of your range, isn’t he?” Marshal interrupts, all fake innocence and smiles. He presses a hand to his cheek in mock concern. “Does he have money or something?” 

“Ah, we’re too late, I’m afraid. He’s jealous already,” Jonesy retorts. 

“I like him,” Redd says. 

“But do I like _you_ , that’s the question,” Marshal replies, smoothly. Jonesy cuffs him, trying very hard not to laugh. As much as she appreciates the guy’s sense of humor, she isn’t sure it’s the way he should approach anyone he’s just met. It’s always been his way, however, and she has yet to curb him of it. Marshal scowls at her, then purses his lips, taking a long drink, swallowing slowly. He gives Redd a scrupulous look over, then sighs and rolls his eyes. 

“You pass. For now,” he states, as if he’s suddenly decided, and has really been calculating all along. Jonesy doesn’t doubt he has, knowing him. It’s the prickly exterior towards new faces. “But only because Jonesy approves.” 

“An honor, Jonesy, really, to have your seal of approval,” Redd teases, with a superfluous bow, but she can see it in his eyes. That same sparkle when she’d first met him. The one that made her think that there’s sincerity in him. It makes it easier to believe he’s trying, at least. 

It doesn’t mean she’s forgotten, though. She’s aware enough that he could still be pulling her leg, trying to get a foot in the door and into manipulating his way around her to benefit himself. At the cost of Mr. Nook, too, if he needs it. She isn’t about to be the reason Mr. Nook has to go through it all over again. It’s her job, for one, to keep the island running smoothly, and Tom Nook out of sorts just won’t do. For two, she likes to think that Mr. Nook is her boss _and_ her friend, and friends don’t let friends get hurt. She’s pretty sure he feels the same way. 

“Alright then, now that we’re all familiar,” she starts, with this set on her mind. She throws herself back into her chair, patting the one next to her. “Let’s talk, Redd. I believe we have some amending to do.” 

“Should I leave…?” Marshal mutters, but Redd holds a hand up and shakes his head, taking the seat with grace. He folds his hands and leans forward, his usual smirk wiped away by determined brows resting over his eyes. Jonesy takes out a cup and pours him a drink, swirling the orange juice she’d _just_ pressed earlier with a copious amount of Vodka. From the looks of things, she’s going to have to go orange picking _again_. Marshal likes a sweet drink, until he can’t taste the alcohol, and she can tell he’s guilty of drinking most of the juice from the way he coughs awkwardly, staring down into his own cup. She’ll embarrass him about it later. 

Redd fumbles with his satchel, one that Jonesy’s only just noticed now - her observation skills really aren’t that great unless she’s on high alert - and he pulls out what looks to be a tea set, with packets of salt. Maybe Redd really just is insane, and she’s been playing a psychopath’s game this whole time. She glances back at Marshal, and they share a look before she turns back to Redd, who’s smiling eagerly. 

“Hear me out: Coffee, with a dash of salt,” Redd explains. As if it actually explains anything at all, and doesn’t make things all the more convoluted. Jonesy covers her mouth to try to hide her very obvious reaction, but she can’t help herself.

“Ah, Redd?” she starts, squirming in her seat from sheer confusion. “No offense, but, what the actual _fuck_ are you on? Because I’m going to need to buy it from you when my days are extra stressful. And trust me, there’s been more than enough of those days lately.” 

Marshal spits his drink and coughs, _hard_ , which makes it really hard for her not to laugh, but she thinks she does a pretty good job of it, biting the inside of her cheek so hard she’s sure it’s going to be a very annoying sore later when she’s trying to enjoy any food. Redd sighs, shaking his head what seems to be fondly, so at least she hasn’t completely offended him. Or she’s just an idiot, and he’s laughing at _her,_ which she finds equally as probable. She’s never admitted to being the brightest. Just cleverer than some. 

“I said _hear me out_ ,” Redd repeats, and now he’s pulling out a bundle of paper, tied together with ribbons and other various things. Whatever his little project is, he’s clearly put a lot of effort into it. She supposes she can at least listen. He’s taken the time to think, and hopefully has nothing but the sincerest feelings behind everything he’s going to present to her. Redd coughs, separating the papers (which she can now see are letters) into separate piles, laying a cup with a salt packet inside each of them. 

“While I was away, I took into account everything you said, Jonesy,” he starts, and Marshal mutters something about how _that’s a poor idea,_ and Jonesy elbows behind at him. If Redd heard it, he doesn’t show or mention it, all wrapped up in his idea. “I thought about Tom and I, and everything we’ve been through, and what it all meant. What it _should_ have all meant. Now, I know I can’t just waltz right into the Resident Service building and tell him all this right away - you saw how our last rendezvous went - but what I _can_ do is try to bare my heart and soul to the man I love, one letter at a time.” 

“Which is where these come in,” he continues, gesturing to the cups and salt packets and letters. “For each day I was gone, and even today as I was near the island, I wrote small notes. Each one has a different thing I’ve always wanted to say, should have said, or want to say now. But, because Nookie is the way he is, I don’t want it to be too obvious right away, so they start off as small, positive affirmations. Nothing too specific, otherwise he’ll know it’s me and will tear each one up every time he gets them before he even _reads_ them. And I worked hard on these.” 

“That you did,” Jonesy agrees, looking over them. If nothing else, it’s impressive how thoughtful he’s been so far. She waves at him to continue. “Carry on.” 

“Now, the salt and coffee part, which I’m sure is what had you wondering if I fell overboard and let my mind become waterlogged,” Redd proceeds, and Jonesy was _pretty_ sure Marshal had passed out to nap out of boredom, but now he sits up, equally intrigued. “I’m sure you know as well as I do that Tom likes coffee. Loves the stuff. Personally, I don’t get the puffery around it, but well, this isn’t about me anyways. However, not only am I adding the obvious metaphor that I’m out on the ocean - which is salty - but I’ve always liked to put salt around the rim of my drink, and Tom knows this. But, I picked salt packets instead of a shaker because I feel it would be much too obvious right away. So packets they are. And here’s where I need _your_ help...” 

“I _knew_ there was a catch,” Jonesy interrupts again, snapping her fingers in an _oh drat_ kind of way. Redd scoffs and rolls his eyes before continuing. He places a cup in her hands, then places one salt packet and one letter on top of it. Jonesy can’t help but to have fun groaning and grimacing as if she is being asked the worst. “You want me to be your _messenger girl_?” 

“I was going to say my _Eros_ , but now you’ve made it sound cheap,” Redd pouts. “It was all very _romantic_ , in my mind. Anyways, your cynicism aside, I need you to deliver it for obvious reasons. One, if Tom sees me, he’ll instantly know and we’ll have to start over. Two, I love the idea of him thinking it’s just coffee from his Resident Representative, doing her job, when suddenly he realizes there’s a note from a secret admirer.” 

“ _Very_ romantic.” She’s not trying to be rude, but she can’t help but to continue to cut in on the conversation. “But how do we know Mr. Nook won’t just think all this is from _me_? I’m assuming you’re going to want me to hold on to all these letters. He’s gonna find out, one way or another, that I’m just taking them from my house.” 

“Hold the phone- this is about Tom _Nook_ ?” Now Marshal is breaking in. He whistles. “Now this is _rich_. You didn’t tell me you were involved in such a _titillating_ state of affairs, Jonesy. Carry on, Argonaut.” 

“Oh, I _really_ like you,” Redd replies to the reference, winking. Marshal pretends to blush, fanning himself.

“Get a _room_ ,” Jonesy gags. 

“I’m trying to, but with _Tom_ , if you haven't noticed,” Redd says, to which Jonesy pretends to choke herself. “And he’ll know, trust me. These letters get very personal. He’ll eventually come to realize they’re from me.” 

“And hopefully,” he continues, suddenly overcome with wistfulness, and Jonesy sobers herself up just enough to reach for his hand. Marshal, for once, has the decency to be quiet, and she’s grateful for it. “Hopefully by then, my previous letters will at least have softened him up enough to want to give me just one more chance. Just once more.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I'd said I'd do weekly updates? Good times. Anyways, sorry for the long coffee break (no pun intended). Hopefully I can get back on the boat (again, so sorry). I'd forgotten some parts I'd wanted to connect, but I think we have headway again.


End file.
